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FIRST SERIES 


LINDSAY'S LUCK 
MISS CRESPIGNY 
THEO 


BY 

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 

! ) 


> > 
) > > 




NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

1907 


Acc isle * 

•J 



Library ©f congress f 

Two Copies Received 

>AN 25 1 907 

Copyricht Entry 


CLASS XXc„ No, 


COPY B, 


Copyright, 1878 , 1879 , 1894 , 

By CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

Copyright, 1906 , 1907 , 

By FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 



press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 


AUTHOR’S NOTE. 


These love stories were written for and printed in “ Peter- 
son’s Ladies’ Magazine.” Owing to the fact that this maga- 
zine was not copyrighted, a number of them have been issued 
in book form without my consent, and representing the 
sketches to be my latest work. 

If these youthful stories are to be read in book form, it is 
my desire that my friends should see the present edition, 
which I have revised for the purpose, and which is brought 
out by my own publishers. 

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 

October , 1878 . 












































. 




















































































CONTENTS. 


LINDSAY'S LUCK. 

PAGE 

Chapter I. — Lady Laura i 

Chapter II. — Rob Lindsay 18 

Chapter III. — A glove 31 

Chapter IV. — I think I have seen that glove before ... 47 

Chapter V. — With the odds against him 60 

Chapter VI. — The Treherne diamond 78 

Chapter VII. — A difficult position 87 

Chapter VIII. — Brought to bay , 99 

Chapter IX. — For the time being 113 

Chapter X. — I don’t know 122 

Chapter XI. — I wrote it — three days ago 132 

Chapter XII. — And Laura held out her hand 146 

MISS CRESPIGNY. 

Chapter I. — Lisbeth 157 

Chapter II. — Another gentleman of the same name . . . 167 

Chapter III. — Pansies for thought 177 

Chapter IV. — A lunch party 190 

Chapter V. — Georgie Esmond 202 

Chapter VI. — A song 21 r 

Chapter VII. — A new experience 220 

Chapter VIII. — I will tell you the truth for once 230 


Contents. 


• • • 

vm 

PAGE 

Chapter IX. — We must always be true 230 

Chapter X. — Pen’yllan 246 

Chapter XI. — A confession 254 

Chapter XII. — A visitor 264 

Chapter XIII. — A ghost 273 

Chapter XIV. — It might have been very sweet 2S2 

Chapter XV. — We won’t go yet 291 

Chapter XVI. — Yes — to Lisbeth 298 

Chapter XVII. — Good-by 308 

Chapter XVIII. — You think I have a secret 321 

Chapter XIX. — And that was the end of it 331 

THEO. 

Chapter I. — An unworn trousseau 343 

Chapter II. — Mr. Denis Oglethorpe 366 

Chapter III. — Priscilla and Marguerite 383 

Chapter IV. — A diary and a visit 410 

Chapter V. — Are you like her ? 433 

Chapter VI. — Don’t go yet 446 

Chapter VII. — And good-bye 463 

Chapter VIII. — You are making a mistake 476 

Chapter IX. — You have done no wrong to me 504 


LINDSAY’S LUCK 




f 

Lindsay’s Luck. 


CHAPTER I. 

LADY LAURA. 

Lady Laura Tresham had just come down 
stairs from her chamber to the breakfast-parlor. 
I mention this, because at the Priory every- 
thing that the Lady Laura did became a mat- 
ter of interest. And why not ? She was a vis- 
itor, she was a charming girl, she was Blanche 
Charnley’s special friend and confidante, she 
was Mrs. Charnley’s prime favorite ; the Rector 
himself was fond of her ; and all the most 
influential young members of the High Church 
at Guestwick (the Rev. Norman Charnley’s 
church) were in love with her, and watched 
the maroon curtains of the Charnley pew far 
more attentively than they watched the an- 
tique carven pulpit, of which the Guestwick 
aristocracy was so justly proud. 

I have said Laura Tresham was a charming 


i 


2 


Lindsay s Luck. 


girl, and I repeat it, adding my grounds for 
the assertion. Perhaps I can best do this by 
presenting her to my readers just as she stands 
before the large, open Gothic window of the 
cozy, old-fashioned little breakfast-room, the 
fresh morning sunlight falling upon her, the 
swallows twittering under the ivied eaves; ivy, 
Gothic window, and sunlight forming exactly 
the right framing and accompaniments to Lady 
Laura Tresham as a picture. She is just tall 
enough to be sometimes, in a certain girlish 
way, a thought regal; she is just fair enough 
to be like a stately young lily ; she has thick, 
soft, yellow blonde hair ; she has blue, velvet 
eyes, and with her long, white morning-dress, 
wears blue velvet trimmings just the color of 
her eyes; for it is a fancy of hers to affect vel- 
vets because she says ribbons don’t suit her. 
But, in spite of this assertion, it really would be 
a difficult matter to find anything which did not 
suit Laura Tresham. Everything suits her, or 
rather it is she who suits everything. Blanche 
Charnley, who adores her, thinks there is noth- 
ing like her beauty, and her stately high-bred 


Lindsay s Luck . 


3 


ways. All that Laura says, or does, or thinks, 
is in Blanche’s eyes almost perfect, and she will 
hear no other view of the matter expressed. 
In true girl-fashion, the two have vowed eternal 
friendship, and they discuss their little confi- 
dences together with profound secrecy and the 
deepest interest. 

Every summer Laura comes to the Priory for 
a few weeks, at least, and every winter Blanche 
has spent in London for the last four years. 
The Charnleys are irreproachable. The Rever- 
end Norman was a younger son, but fortune 
has smiled upon him, nevertheless. There is 
no richer living than Guestwick in England or 
Wales, and certainly no more aristocratic one. 
The country gentry and nobility attend the 
High Church and approve of the Rector. The 
family drive to service in a velvet-lined car- 
riage, while Blanche and Mrs. Charnley make 
their charity rounds in a pony phaeton, whose 
ponies are miracles of value in themselves. Ac- 
cordingly, any astute reasoner will observe at 
once that it is impossible for even that most 
select of dragons, Lady Laura’s guardian, who 


4 


Lindsay s Liick „ 


is something slow and heavy in Chancery, to 
object to his ward’s intimacy with the Guest- 
wick Charnleys, as they are called. 

So, Lady Laura has been Blanche’s companion 
from her childhood, and now is more her friend 
than ever. So she makes summer visits to the 
Priory, and so we find her this summer morn- 
ing standing at the breakfast-room window, 
and listening with some interest to her host 
and hostess, as they discuss the contents of an 
American letter the Reverend Norman has 
just received by the morning’s delivery. 

“ I have never seen him,” the Rector was 
saying, “ but if he is at all like his father, he is 
a generous, brave young fellow ; perhaps a lit- 
tle unconventional in manner, but still a thor- 
ough-bred gentleman in every noblest sense of 
the word. I shall be glad to see him for more 
reasons than one, and I hope you will make 
him feel as much at home as possible, Alicia, 
and you also, Blanche, my dear.” 

Lady Laura turned toward the breakfast- 
table. 

“Who is he, Mr. Charnley?” she asked. “ I 


Lindsay s Luck. 


5 


suppose I may inquire, as I am to meet him, 
and I want to know. You see, Blanche and 
Mrs. Charnley have the advantage over me in 
knowing the whole story. What did you say 
his name was ? ” 

“ Robert Lindsay,” read Blanche aloud, glanc- 
ing at the signature of the open epistle, ‘Yours, 
sincerely.’ “ Papa, let Laura see this letter. It 
is so odd, and yet so — so manly, I should call 
it.” 

“ Certainly, the letter is quite at Laura’s 
disposal,” answered the Rector, with a smile. 
“ Read it, my dear. I admire its tone as much 
as Blanche does.” 

Lady Laura came to the table to take the 
letter, and, as she stood, glanced over it with 
some curiosity in her eyes. It was rather a sin- 
gular letter, or at least it was a letter that ex- 
pressed a great deal of character. It was frank, 
fearless, and unconstrained ; honest, certainly, 
and by no means awkward in its tone. The 
writer evidently did not lack worldly expe- 
rience, and was not short of a decent amount 
of self-esteem. Such men are not common 


6 


Lindsay s Luck. 


anywhere, but they are an especial rarity among 
certain classes ; and in this case, English re- 
serve and dread of appearing effusive, gave 
way to American coolness and self-poise. It 
was something new to Laura Tresham, and she 
looked up from the closing sentence and dash- 
ing signature ‘ Very sincerely, Robert Lind- 
say,’ with a soft little laugh. 

“ It is an odd letter,” she said. “ I don’t 
think I ever read anything like it before. Thank 
you, Mr. Charnley.” 

“ I am under great obligations to the young 
man’s father,” said the Rector, as he refolded 
the letter; “ and I can never hope to repay him 
otherwise than by taking his place toward his 
son, so long as he remains in England. I sup- 
pose we shall see young Lindsay soon. He 
says his epistle would scarcely have time to 
precede him by a day.” 

Robert Lindsay was pretty liberally dis- 
cussed, as the breakfast progressed. Events 
had prepossessed Mrs. Charnley in his favor ; 
and the honest assurance of his letter had 
pleased and amused Blanche ; but Lady Laura 


Lindsay s Luck . 


7 


was merely curious about the new arrival, and 
had not as yet decided whether to like him or 
not. She was not so prone to sudden admira- 
tion as Blanche, and she had a secret fancy 
that this simple, frank young fellow might be- 
come a trifle tiresome through the very frank- 
ness of his simplicity. 

The day passed, as days generally did with 
the Charnleys. They had a pleasant way of 
spending days at the Priory; so pleasant, in- 
deed, that people said killing time was the 
forte of the family. No one ever felt the hours 
drag at that establishment. Lady Laura was 
as fond of the Priory as Blanche Charnley her- 
self. “ One could be so deliciously idle there,” 
she said, but she did not add that, after all, the 
idleness did not imply loss of time. There was 
more company at the Priory than anywhere else 
in the shire ; and the young eligibles who 
watched the big, ancient pews on Sundays, rode 
over from their respective homes so frequently, 
that a day rarely passed in which there was not 
quite a respectable party out on the grounds, or 
in the delightful old oak-paneled parlor, playing 


8 


Lindsay s Luck . 


croquet, or stringing bows and handing arrows, 
or talking pleasant nonsense to pretty Blanche 
Charnley, and making gallant speeches to her 
friend. Half a dozen of them were there the 
day of the arrival of the American letter, and 
among the rest came Col. Treherne, who was 
blonde, long-limbed, and leonine in type. 
Blanche Charnley had a quiet fancy that 
Laura did not dislike Col. Treherne. Her 
manner to him bore better the construction of 
cordiality than her manner toward her numer- 
ous adorers usually did ; sometimes it seemed 
even tinged with a certain degree of interest, 
and once or twice, when she had ridden out 
with her groom, she had returned with Col. 
Treherne at her side, and a bright^ soft color 
on her fair face. But Blanche was not partial 
to Col. Treherne. She did not like his air of 
calm superiority ; she did not like his regular 
patrician features and fair skin ; she objected 
even to his long, fair mustache, and his favor- 
ite habit of twisting it with his white hand ; 
and she absolutely detested the reflective cook 
ness of the questioning glance that generally 


Lindsay s Luck. 


9 


accompanied the action, when he was annoyed 
or wished to repress any approach at familiar- 
ity. But, of course, she was very polite to Col. 
Treherne when he came to the Priory. She 
was too thoroughbred, in spite of her energetic 
likes and dislikes, to exhibit either openly ; so 
she merely confined herself to the few stray 
shots good breeding admitted, in the shape of 
an occasional polite little sarcasm, or a quiet 
move against her aversion’s game. 

This particular evening, as she stood with 
the little party on the archery-ground, watch- 
ing the gentleman stringing her friend’s pretty 
satin-wood bow, and handing her arrows, she 
felt her dislike even more strongly than usual. 
There was a spice of romance in Blanche 
Charnley’s gay nature, and her love for Laura 
Tresham was touched with it. She had a cher- 
ished fancy that the man who won such a gift 
must be perfect of his kind. He must be 
brave and generous, and whole-souled in every 
chivalrous sense. He must reverence the 
woman he loved beyond all else, and he must 
value her love as the great gift of God to man. 


10 


Lindsay s Luck . 


There were to be no half measures in its depth, 
no shade of self-worship, no touch of weak- 
ness ; he must be ready to wait, to do, to dare 
for her pure sake. He must 

“ Love one maiden only, cleave todier 
And worship her by years of noble deeds. 

Until he won her.” 


Geoffrey Treherne was not that man. His 
love for Lady Laura was only a pleasant sacri- 
fice upon the altar of his lofty self-consciousness. 
He was a well-bred individual, and, in a certain 
punctilious fashion, scrupulously, haughtily 
honorable ; but he would not have “ fallen 
down and worshipped.” In his own way he 
cared for Laura Tresham. Her fair face and 
proud repose of manner pleased him ; the ad- 
miration she excited pleased him. The woman 
he married must be capable of exciting admira- 
tion. Her name was as ancient as his own ; 
altogether he felt that she was worthy of the 
honor he intended doing her. Naturally, it 
was not all calculation. He was a man, after 
all, and he loved her, and was ready to sue for 


Lindsay s Luck. 


1 1 

her favor, after his own fashion ; but he was 
not Blanche Charnley’s ideal of a lover for her 
friend. 

So, with the consciousness of this on her 
mind, Blanche Charnley felt dreadfully out of 
patience, as she listened to Laura’s clear, soft- 
toned voice, and noticed that she seemed by 
no means displeased. Once or twice she even 
thought she saw her blush faintly, at some of 
her companion’s speeches ; and Lady Laura 
was not prone to blushes, and, to Blanche’s 
quickened senses, the soft touch of color ap- 
peared suspicious. Suppose she really cared 
for him ? And then why should she not ? The 
world would call the match a suitable one, in 
every sense of the term. In the depth of her 
momentary vexation, Blanche dropped the 
arrow she held in her hand, and bent to pick it 
up, before the gentleman who stood by her 
side had time to see it. 

“ Dear me ! ” she sighed, unconsciously. “ I 
wish somebody respectable would come — any- 
body, so that it wasn’t Geoffrey Treherne.” 

“ I ask pardon,” said her escort. “ I really 


12 L indsay ’ i - L nek, 

did not understand what you said, Miss Charn- 
ley.” 

She looked up and laughed. 

“ Oh, excuse me!” she said. “I was think- 
ing aloud, I believe. How very rude ! It is I 
who should ask pardon.” But in her anxiety 
she brought some diplomacy to bear against 
the enemy during the remainder of the even- 
ing. She gave him no opportunity to improve 
upon any advance he might have made, and 
played “ third party” so effectually, that Tre- 
herne actually found himself at a loss, in the 
face of his dignified self-consciousness, and 
accepted the Rector’s invitation to dinner in 
sheer self-defence. 

Half an hour after the other visitors had 
made their adieus, and the two young ladies 
had gone to their respective rooms, Lady 
Laura, who was sitting under the hands of her 
maid, heard a loud summons at the hall door, 
and, when the summons had been answered, 
the sound of voices. 

She raised her head with something of curi- 
osity. 


i3 


Lindsay s Luck, 

“ I did not know Mr. Charnley expected 
visitors, Buxton,” she said to her waiting- 
woman. 

Buxton, whose hands were full of the shining, 
yellow, blonde tresses, did not know that visi- 
tors were expected, either. “ Unless it might 
be the American gentleman, my lady. Mrs. 
Charnley said it was possible he might come 
earlier than they had expected.” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Lady Laura indifferently. 
“ The American. I have no doubt it is. I had 
forgotten.” 

Buxton had not completed her task, when a 
little rap at the door announced Blanche Charn- 
ley, who, being a quick dresser, had completed 
her toilet early, and now entered, eager and 
bri ght, in her pretty, fresh, dinner costume. 
She came and seated herself at the toilet-table 
at once, looking even more animated than was 
usual with her. 

“ Papa’s visitor has arrived, Laura,” she said. 
“ I was on my way down stairs, when he made 
his appearance, and 1 had an excellent view of 
him.” 


14 Lindsay s Luck. 

“ Indeed ! ” returned her friend. “ And the 
result ? ” 

Blanche nodded her head prettily. 

“ An excellent one, my dear,” she answered, 
laughing a little. “ Robert Lindsay will ‘ do/ 
He is stalwart, he is dark, he is well-featured, 
he is even handsome, and I know he is a desira- 
ble individual. He is not the least bit like Col. 
Treherne, Laura,” meditatively. “And he car- 
ried his own valise.” 

“ My dear Blanche ! ” exclaimed Lady Laura, 
raising her eyes in no slight astonishment. 

Blanche laughed, and nodded again. 

“Absolutely did,” she said. “And the effect 
was not an unpleasant one, despite its novelty. 
He carried it well, and looked quite at ease, 
and honestly pleased, when he held it in one 
hand and gave the other to papa, who came 
out into the hall to meet him. I really 
don’t believe Geoffrey Treherne would have 
looked so thoroughbred under the circum- 
stances.” 

Lady Laura did not make any reply, but the 
suggestion was scarcely a pleasant one to her 


Lindsay s Luck. 


15 


mind. The idea of Col. Treherne carrying his 
portable baggage in his faultlessly-gloved hand, 
was so novel that it appeared almost absurd. 
That gentleman’s valet was the envy of all his 
acquaintance, from the fact of his intense 
respectability and desirable repose of man- 
ner, and Col. Treherne would decidedly have 
disapproved of any campaign which would 
not have admitted of his attendant’s pres, 
ence. 

Blanche was evidently prepossessed in the 
new visitor’s favor. She chattered about him 
with good-humored gayety, and described his 
appearance to her listener with less of disposi- 
tion to satirize than she commonly displayed. 
The novelty of a gentleman who carried his 
own valise, had pleased her ; and the fact that 
the gentleman in question was not at all 

like Geoffrey Treherne, had pleased her still 
more. 

At last Buxton had finished, and Lady Laura 
rose and stood before the swinging mirror to 
favor the satisfactory result with an indolent 
glance of inspection. 


1 6 Lindsay s Luck . 

“What a lovely creature you are, Laura,” 
said Blanche, with a little laugh. “ That soft, 
pale-blue dressing-gown makes you look like a 
blonde angel. What is it Tennyson says, 

‘ A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair.’ 

There must be some satisfaction in your looking 
at the mirror. All Buxton’s art couldn’t make 
my poor little fair head look such an aureole. 
Mr. Lindsay is quite dark, so I suppose he will 
at once fulfill the decrees of fate, by following 
Col. Treherne’s august example.” 

“ How absurd ! ” said Lady Laura, coloring 

faintly, however. “ Blanche, I beg ” 

But Blanche only laughed again. 

“Why should it be absurd?” she asked. 
“ He is a gentleman, after all, whether his 
father sold bales of calico, or not. Do you 
know, Laura, I like these trading people. 
They are astute and thoroughbred often, and 
I believe in Ralph’s favorite theory, that we 
poor representatives of the ‘ blue blood ’ are 
falling from grace.” 


Lindsay s Luck. 


17 


It is scarcely necessary to record Lady 
Laura’s reply. That young lady was astute 
also ; so she simply smiled, with a slight touch 
of reserve, and colored a little again, and then 
adroitly changed the subject. 


i8 


Lindsay s Luck . 


CHAPTER II. 

ROB LINDSAY. 

WHILE her toilet was being completed, after 
Blanche had gone down stairs again, she gave 
the new arrival some slight mental considera- 
tion, which I regret to say was not so favorable 
as he really deserved it should have been. 
Was he really going to be intrusive? Surely, 
something in his manner must have suggested 
Blanche’s jesting speech, absurd as it was. 
Perhaps there was a tinge of Geoffrey Tre- 
herne’s haughty self-security in the object of 
Geoffrey Treherne’s admiration. Lady Laura 
Tresham, with her fair face, and her woman- 
hood, and her rent-roll, had the birthright to 
such a pride, and but one or two persons who 
were fond of her knew that, notwithstanding 
this, Lady Laura Tresham was only a very 
pretty, very tender, very innocent girl, of whom 
experience would make the sweetest of women. 

Almost unconsciously to herself, Robert Lind- 

18 


Lindsay s Luck. 


l 9 


say was in her thoughts, as she went from her 
room across the broad upper landing leading 
to the stair-case, but still she was by no means 
prepared for a little incident chance brought 
about. 

She had just paused for a moment to arrange 
the sweeping train of her dress, before going 
down, when a door opened behind her, and the 
individual who came out, in his momentary 
embarrassment at finding her so near, trod up- 
on the shining purple silk before he saw it. It 
is quite possible that this occurred because he 
had seen Lady Laura first, and that, after his 
first glance at the aureole of crepe, yellow hair, 
and the delicate face slightly turned over her 
shoulder, he forgot the great probability of there 
being a lustrous yard-long train in her wake. 

“ I really beg pardon/’ he said, the next in- 
stant. “ Pray excuse me, Lady Laura,” and 
he colored to his handsome brown forehead. 

The glance of the eyes upraised in reply, 
augmented his confusion. The young lady did 
not color, not even ever so slightly, but she look- 
ed somewhat astonished. Her only reply was • 


20 


Lindsay s Luck. 


a calm, sweeping bow, and the next moment 
the silken purple train was rustling down the 
staircase, and the gentleman, who was no less 
than Robert Lindsay himself, remained stand- 
ing upon the landing watching its progress with 
the most unconscious of honest admiration. 
Now this really was not a strictly conventional 
mode of proceeding ; but, as I have before in- 
timated, Robert Lindsay was not a strictly con- 
ventional individual. 

He was an honest, handsome, fearless young 
fellow, and his beauty and fearlessness were 
his chief characteristics. Chance had thrown 
him into a somewhat novel position, but it was 
a position whose novelty he was too thoroughly 
manly to feel embarrassed under. He had been 
glad to meet his host, and he had honestly en- 
deavored to repress his inclination toward any 
antagonism for the august but frigid Treherne. 
He had thought Blanche Charnley a delight- 
fully pretty girl, and now as he stood at the 
head of the staircase and watched Lady Laura 
Tresham’s sweeping purple train he forgot that 
it was unusual for gentlemen to exhibit an ad- 


Lindsay s Luck . 


21 


miration in so deliberate a fashion, and remain- 
ing stationary, decided that he had never seen 
a woman so lovely, so fresh, so delicate, and so 
well dressed, in the whole course of his exist- 
ence. 

There was a little excitement upon him, 
brought about by the unexpectedness of the 
encounter, and this little excitement made him 
turn into his bed-room again, before going 
down after the train had disappeared, and tak- 
ing his stand before an open window, he waited 
a few minutes for the fresh night air to cool 
him off. 

“ It would have been a pleasant sort of 
thing,” he said, almost unconsciously, “a pleas- 
ant sort of thing, if a man had lived in olden 
times, to have ridden to battle with her little 
glove in one’s helmet. On that rich purple, it 
looked like a lily — her hand. Golden hair, too, 
bright and shining — just such hair as fellows 
like Tennyson rave about. I wonder if Tre- 
herne — pah ! No. I forgot she did not know 
me when I called her Lady Laura. Laura ! Per- 
haps Petrarch’s Laura was such a Laura.” 


22 


Lindsay s Liick. 


When he went down to the drawing-room, he 
found Treherne bending graciously over Lady 
Laura’s chair, the velvet blue eyes softly down- 
cast as he talked. The most prejudiced indi- 
vidual could not fail to acknowledge that Geof- 
frey Treherne was a handsome man, even in 
his least prepossessing moods; and now, hav- 
ing in some sort recovered from his temporary 
disappointment, in his deferential graciousness 
he was really very courtly-looking indeed. Still, 
Robert Lindsay did not show to any disadvan- 
tage as he bowed low before Lady Laura, 
when Mr. Charnley presented him. His tall, 
stalwart figure had a self-asserting strength that 
Treherne’s lacked ; his clear-cut, brown face, 
and clear, straight-glanced eyes, were as perfect 
in their beauty as a man’s might be, and the 
natural ease and fearlessness of any self-com- 
mittal in his manner to Blanche Charnley’s 
mind, at least, was worthy of admiration. But 
Lady Laura, not being prone to enthusiasm 
saw only, as she rose slightly from her chair, 
a very tall, rather good-looking individual, who 
had caused her some little surprise a few min- 


Lindsay s Luck . 


23 


utes before, by addressing her familiarly by her 
name, and who was, at the present time, rather 
tending to increase it by the unconcealed ad- 
miration of his glance. It was evidently an 
admiration not easy to conceal, and it expressed 
itself unavoidably, as it were, in the frank, 
brown eyes, even once or twice after Mr. Rob- 
ert Lindsay had taken his seat at the dining- 
table, exactly opposite Lady Laura Tresham. 
How could he help it? Every time he looked 
up, he saw the pure, girlish face, with its softly 
downcast eyes, the delicate throat, and the au- 
reole of bright, crepe hair ; and, in spite of him- 
self, the honest delight he experienced, por- 
trayed itself, to some extent, in his countenance. 

The Reverend Norman being a generous, hos- 
pitable gentleman was very much predisposed 
in his young guest’s favor. Really, Robert 
Lindsay was apt to prepossess people through 
the sheer power of his great physical beauty ; 
and, again, his was one of the rare cases in 
which there can be no diminution of favor, 
able opinion. He was a good talker, through 
right of a sweet voice, a clear brain, and a 


24 


Lindsay s Lack. 


quick sense of the fitness of things. He had 
traveled as much as most men, and had seen 
more. He had enjoyed his youth heartily, and 
appeared likely to enjoy his manhood; and, at 
twenty-six, despite a pretty thorough knowl- 
edge of the world, he still retained a simple 
chivalrous faith in things good and true, such 
as few men can thank Heaven for the posses- 
sion of. 

Occasionally, during the evening, Lady Laura 
found herself regarding him with some interest. 
There was a novelty in this fearless man that 
impressed her, and attracted her attention. 
He was talking to Blanche about a hunting trip 
he had made in California, when her eyes were 
first drawn toward him. It was a wild, adven- 
turous story he was telling ; but he was plainly 
telling it well, and with such a man's hearty, 
zestful remembrance of its pleasures ; and 
Blanche was listening, her look of amused in- 
terest not unmixed with a little admiration. 
He had not been intrusive so far, notwith- 
standing his frank eyes, and the trifling singu- 
larity of conduct in his watching her passage 


Lindsay s Luck. 


25 


down stairs ; accordingly Lady Laura felt her- 
self at liberty to judge him impartially. He 
was handsome, certainly, and a certain air of 
boyish freshness and spirit in his style was 
whimsically pleasant. Hew he seemed to be 
enjoying the jests he was making, and how 
well his gay laugh chimed with the ring of 
Blanche's. He would be a very hearty, honest 
lover for some woman one day, and then, un- 
consciously, she glanced up at Geoffrey Tre- 
herne, who stood at her side, holding her little 
lace fan. 

“ Our friend seems to be enjoying himself,” 
said that gentleman, with calm disapproval of 
the new arrival’s being so thoroughly at his 
ease. Col. Treherne felt, in an undefined 
manner, that the young man ought to be a 
little overpowered under the circumstances. 

But, singularly enough, whatever the cause 
of the phenomenon might have been, Lady 
Laura did not respond as cordially as her com- 
panion had expected. In fact, her manner 
was rather coldly indifferent, when, after glanc- 
ing across the room, she made her reply. 


2 6 


Lindsay s Luck . 

“ I had scarcely observed/’ she said ; “ Blanche 
appears to be interested, however, and Blanche 
is usually not easily pleased.” 

Treherne’s hand went up to his big, fair 
mustache, doubtfully. He did not understand 
this. Surely, Lady Laura did not intend to 
countenance this person by even the mildest 
of lady-like companionship. He turned round, 
and looked down at her ; but the lights of the 
glittering, pendant chandelier shone down up- 
on the most tranquil and untranslatable of 
fair faces, and he was fain to smooth his 
mustache again, and decide, mentally, that 
this was an excessively unsatisfactory state of 
affairs. 

It was late when the family retired ; but it 
was not too late for Blanche’s customary visit 
to her friend’s chamber. During Lady Laura’s 
stay at the Priory, few nights passed without 
pleasant, girl-like chats being held in one apart- 
ment or the other. Blanche’s dressing-room 
adjoined Laura’s, and, upon this occasion, her 
young ladyship had just dismissed her waiting- 
woman, when the young lady made her appear- 


Lindsay s Luck. 


27 


ance in dressing-robe and slippers, brush in 
hand, her abundant, pretty, fair hair hanging 
loosely about her. 

“ I want to have a long chat to-night, Laura,” 
she said, after she had tucked her small, slip- 
pered feet under her gay wrapper, on the most 
luxurious little lounge in the room. “You are 
not tired, are you? You don’t look tired. 
The fact is, you never do look tired. How 
delightfully flossy and yellow your hair is ; you 
are sitting in an actual bower of gold. I al- 
ways think my hair is pretty until I look at 
yours. Now, tell me what you think of Robert 
Lindsay.” 

All this, in one gay, rattling speech, and then 
she shook her fair tresses back, and paused 
for a reply, with something more watchful in 
her eyes than one would have imagined the 
careless question warranted. 

“ Now it is to be an honest opinion, Lau- 
ra,” she added, “ without the least regard for 
the bales of calico, and entirely unbiassed by 
any stately remembrance of that first august 
T resham, who came over with the Conqueror. 


28 Lindsay s Luck . 

What — do — you — really — think — of — Robert 
Lindsay ? ” 

“Think?” said Lady Laura, complacently, 
and with some slight, young lady-like mendac- 
ity, be it known, “ I think he is very big, my 
dear ; and really, I believe that is all I have 
thought just yet.” 

Blanche’s pretty shoulders were shrugged 
expressively. 

“That is so like you, Laura,” she said. 
“ And it is exactly what I expected, too. I 
knew you wouldn’t do him justice, poor fellow. 
Well, suppose I give you my opinion of Mr. 
Robert Lindsay. I — think — he — is — splen- 
did ! ” 

Lady Laura drew a long, shining, heavy tress 
over the white arm, from which the open sleeve 
of the blue dressing-robe fell back, and she 
looked at the shining tress, and the white arm 
approvingly, as well she might. 

“Why?” she asked, concisely. 

“ Because he is honest,” said Blanche. “ Be- 
cause he believes in things ; because he is 
manly and chivalrous. Do you know, Laura, 


Lindsay s Luck. 


29 


he was honest enough to tell me that you were 
the loveliest woman he had ever seen ; and he 
said it as gravely and reverently as if he had 
been speaking of his own mother.” 

Lady Laura flushed even to her white fore- 
head. 

“You are either talking nonsense, Blanche,” 
she said, “or I can tell you something else that 
I think of Mr. Lindsay.” 

“What else?” asked Blanche. 

“ That he is very insolent,” was the reply. 

Blanche merely laughed, and shrugged her 
shoulders again, with a comical little gri- 
mace, as she answered this rather intolerant 
speech. 

“ I don’t think he is,” she said, practically. 
“ I wish he had said it of me ; or I wish some- 
body else had said it, with the proviso that 
they had said it just as he did. He was speak- 
ing the truth, and one hears so many white fibs 
in these days, that the truth is as astounding 
as it is refreshing.” 

But she did not refer to Robert Lindsay 
again that night. Perhaps she thought she 


30 


Lindsay's Luck. 


had said enough ; at any rate, during the rest 
of their conversation, his name did not once 
occur; and, when she rose from her lounge, at 
last, to go to her room, they had wandered so 
far from Robert Lindsay that such an individ- 
ual might never have had existence. 


Lindsay s Luck . 


3i 


CHAPTER III. 

A GLOVE. 

But before many days had passed, Lady 
Laura found room for more than temporary in- 
terest or temporary annoyance. She found 
room for a surprise, which became in a short 
space of time something like amazement. She 
would have thought very little of Mr. Charn- 
ley’s guest after the first evening of their meet- 
ing, had she not found herself compelled to 
think of him through the agency of a rather 
unexpected fact, which forced itself upon her 
notice. This young man of whom, gentle- 
man as he was, in her calm, intolerant pride 
she had thought little more than of one of 
her guardian’s lackeys ; this young man, whose 
father was a tradesman, and whose grand- 
father she had heard Mr. Charnley say was 
an excellent farmer ; this young man was, 
in the most unprecedentedly matter-of-fact 
manner, falling into the same position as Geof- 


32 


Lindsay s Luck. 


frey Treherne himself. She could not under- 
stand how it had come about, and far less 
could she avoid it ; she could only begin, as 
time progressed, to feel that it was so. It 
would have been the most impossible of tasks 
to repulse him. His genial, hearty nature 
w r as not easily chilled ; and even Treherne 
found his frigid stateliness met with a careless 
gayety that perfectly overwhelmed him. Lind- 
say’s honest, undisguised admiration showed 
itself in every action, and Lady Laura found 
herself sheerly helpless against him. It was 
useless to endeavor to chill him ; he clearly 
was determined to persevere in sublime disre- 
gard of the fact that Geoffrey Treherne and 
William the Conqueror stood between him and 
the object of his admiration. He cared little 
for Geoffrey Treherne, it seemed, and less for 
William of Normandy; and yet, in spite of his 
persistence, he was never intrusive. And, not- 
withstanding her astonishment, Laura Tresham 
could not resist wholly a slight inclination to 
feel interested in him in some degree. If it 
had been easier to dislike him, she would have 


Lindsay s Luck. 


33 


felt herself in a safer position, but to dislike 
him was a sheer impossibility. She had tried 
the iciest reserve, and he had waited patiently, 
until she was compelled to thaw into at least a 
reasonable warmth ; and this being the result 
of her efforts, good breeding afforded her no 
alternative ; and yet she was not quite pre- 
pared for the somewhat remarkable sentiment 
to which the gentleman gave utterance upon 
one occasion. 

They were sitting together in Mr. Charn ley’s 
study, one evening, when the conversation 
turned incidentally upon a certain mesalliance 
that was the subject of great discussion among 
the aristocratic dragons of Guestwick, and 

which had aroused in said dragons much severe 

• 

contempt and disapproval, and Mrs. Charnley 
was echoing the public sentiment, though, of 
course, more charitably than was usual with 
the dragons, when Rob Lindsay (people always 
called him Rob, he said), spoke up with a not 
unbecoming earnestness of belief in what he 
was saying. 

“ I don’t think I agree with you, Mrs. Charn- 


34 


Lindsay s Luck. 


ley,” he said. “ When a man loves a woman 
honestly, he forgets everything but that he 
does love her honestly. He does not think so 
much of her superiority or inferiority as he 
does of the fact that he loves her. The woman 
I marry will be to me simply the woman dear- 
est to me on earth.” 

Mrs. Charnley smiled, but Blanche, who had 
been teasing her macaw as it swung in its 
gilded cage over the window-plants, turned 
round and gave him a long, keen, quiet glance, 
as if while measuring his strength, she found 
the result satisfactory. Rob Lindsay had ad- 
vanced in her good opinion every day, though 
she rarely mentioned him to Laura. A very 
short experience had convinced her that if 
cool, deliberate determination was of any avail, 
Rob Lindsay needed no championship, and 
was surer of success than most men. 

Lady Laura herself did not vouchsafe him 
a glance. When he spoke, she was taking a 
book from the library shelves ; and when, a 
few minutes after, she replaced it, there was a 
faint glow of unwilling color on her cheeks. 


35 


Lindsay s Luck. 

And later that very evening she had cause 
for still greater and more indignant bewilder- 
ment. 

She had been out in the morning, making 
calls with Blanche, and upon her return had 
accidentally left one of her gloves upon a 
table, in the parlor. About an hour after the 
discussion in the library, she remembered the 
mislaid article, and went to the room to look 
for it, and as she entered, her eyes fell upon 
the stalwart, good-looking figure of Rob Lind- 
say, who was standing in the middle of the 
apartment, with his back turned toward her. 
He did not hear her entrance, and at first she 
scarcely comprehended his pre-occupation ; but 
the next instant, a glance at the pier-glass 
opposite to him revealed to her the true state 
of affairs. He held her lost glove in his hand, 
and was regarding it as it lay upon his palm 
with a great deal of quiet admiration, and be- 
fore she had time to speak, he had compla- 
cently put it into his vest-pocket. He saw 
her the moment after, and turned toward her 
with a coolness and freedom from embarrass- 


Lindsay s Luck . 


36 

ment that completely overpowered her. and 
rendered her helpless, notwithstanding her in- 
dignation. He must unavoidably have known 
that the mirror had reflected everything to her, 
and yet he was as placidly unconcerned as 
would have been possible under any circum- 
stances. 

“ I actually did not hear you come into the 
room,” he said, with audacious cheerfulness. 

His coolness so staggered her, that for an in- 
stant she only looked at him haughtily. 

“ I left one of my gloves here, this morning, 
Mr. Lindsay,” she said, at last, “ and I came to 
find it. It was on this table, near Blanche’s card- 
case, I believe. It was a mauve glove, with 
white silk tassels ; ” and she looked at him with 
steady scrutiny that should have abashed him, 
but which, to her astonishment, failed to do so. 

He turned to the table as cheerfully as ever, 
without a shadow of discomposure in his man- 
ner. 

“ It doesn’t appear to be here now,” he said. 
“A mauve glove, you say, with white silk tas_ 
sels. I believe I remember noticing it, this 


Lindsay s Luck. 37 

morning, as being a very pretty glove. It 
would be a pity to lose it.” 

Lady Laura did not waste time in any fur- 
ther search. The ends of the identical white 
silk tassels were at that moment showing them- 
selves above the edge of the pocket of his vest, 
and he had not even the grace to blush, even 
while he was perfectly conscious of the fact 
that her eyes were resting upon this final touch 
of strong circumstantial evidence. 

On her way to her room, Blanche met her 
upon the staircase. 

“Where have you been, Laura? ” she asked. 
“ What is the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said the young lady, briefly. “ I 
have been looking for my glove, and — and — I 
haven’t found it. Don’t keep Mr. Lindsay 
waiting, Blanche. I shall not have time to join 
you at present, and you know he promised to 
give you another archery lesson.” 

Blanche ran down stairs, and, when she 
reached the bottom of the stair-case, she found 
Robert Lindsay at the hall door, looking out 
upon the lawn with an amiable smile. It was 


38 


Lindsay s Luck. 


a calm smile, and a baffling one, and not at all 
an unsatisfied smile, in its way ; and it was on 
the cheerful, handsome face, even after half an 
hour spent in the archery-ground. Then, after 
making several very bad aims at the target, 
Blanche set another arrow, and drew her bow 
with most delicate precision. 

“And so Laura couldn’t find her glove, Mr. 
Lindsay,” she said. 

Mr. Lindsay looked with great complacency 
first at the aim his pupil was taking, and then 
at his pupil’s pretty face. 

“Why, no!” he said, regretfully. “I be- 
lieve she did not. And it was a pity, too, you 
know, because it was such a very pretty glove 
A little mauve affair, with white silk tassels, 
and a delicious little ghost of a perfume about 

• , yy 

it. 

“Yes,” admitted Miss Charnley, sagaciously, 
“ I know the glove. Laura always does wear 
pretty gloves, and — there, Mr. Lindsay,” as 
the little, white-winged arrow whizzed away. 
“ Right in the centre of the target.” 

“ In the very centre,” replied the immovable 


Lindsay s Luck. 39 

Rob. “ And it is what I should call a very ex- 
cellent aim, too, Miss Blanche.” 

For the next day or so Mr. Rob Lindsay 
encountered some rather rough sailing, if so in- 
definite a term may be employed. In Laura 
Tresham’s creed presumption was the sin un- 
pardonable ; and Robert Lindsay had been 
guilty of an act of presumption, which had no 
equal in her experience. If he had shown 
the slightest shadow of embarrassment, or the 
slightest touch of penitential regret, she might 
have found it possible to vouchsafe him a 
haughty pardon ; but as it was, his immovable 
composure baffled her terribly. As far as was 
possible, without causing remark, she had held 
herself aloof from him, scarcely deigning him 
a word or glance ; but it had not produced the 
effect she desired. He did not intrude himself 
upon her, but he certainly did not avoid her. 
He was as gay and as good-humored as ever, 
and seemed to enjoy himself as thoroughly. 
The Reverend Norman was very fond of him, 
and with Mrs. Charnley he was as great a fa- 
vorite as Lady Laura. In his good nature, his 


40 


Lindsay s Lack . 


good spirits, his boyish daring, and his almost 
affectionate warmth of manner, were combined 
all the most desirable characteristics of a favor- 
ite son ; and Mrs. Charnley, with true motherly 
recollections of the Ralph of whom Blanche 
had spoken, and who was the only son of the 
house of Charnley, regarded this brave, high- 
spirited, dashing young fellow with something 
of a motherly affection. Accordingly, she 
wondered somewhat at Lady Laura’s cold re- 
ception of her eulogistic speeches, but Blanche 
understood the matter pretty clearly. Laura 
no longer avoided mentioning Rob Lindsay. 
In their nightly discussions she spoke of him 
with cutting sarcasms. She laughed at him, 
and sneered with extraordinary aptness at his 
unconventional frankness and warmth of man- 
ner; and certainly poor Rob had never met 
with more severity than he sometimes met with 
in the bright little dressing-room. Still he 
seemed to sustain himself with wonderful cheer- 
fulness through it all. Even when he had been 
most cuttingly satirized, and when his pleasant 
speeches were received with the most frigid 


Lindsay s I^uck. 


41 


hauteur, he appeared to make himself most 
thoroughly comfortable. He drove the little 
pony-carriage for Mrs. Charnley when she want- 
ed to make her charitable rounds ; he arranged 
her footstool for her when she was tired ; he 
had ridden over to Guestwick and matched Ber- 
lin wools for Blanche to a shade ; he had ren- 
dered himself popular with every one, and even 
the dullest, longest days were made cheerful 
by his indefatigable good-humor. Taking all 
this into consideration, it is easy to see that 
Lady Laura’s task was a difficult one. It was 
difficult to satirize him to Blanche as merciless- 
ly as she felt inclined ; and, of course, it was 
impossible to satirize him openly. And besides, 
it appeared quite probable that, even under 
such circumstances, he would have encountered 
the satire as he encountered every other wea- 
pon. So she found herself compelled, much 
against her will, to submit to the sheer force of 
circumstances. 

After the advent of the new arrival, Col. 
Treherne’s visits became even more frequent 
than they had been before. Perhaps, notwith- 


42 Lindsay s Luck . 

standing his self-consciousness, he had been 
quick-sighted enough to see a dangerous rival 
in a man who was generous, imperturbable, 
and physically beautiful in no slight degree, in 
grand defiance of his lack of pedigree. Women 
were subject to whimsical fancies after all, and 
even such a woman as Laura Tresham, with 
all her inborn prejudice and pride, might be 
influenced by such a man’s persistence, if per- 
sistent he should presume to be. And in her 
secret resentment against Rob, Laura w T as more 
cordial in her reception of Treherne’s advances 
than she would otherwise have been. She was 
less chary of her smiles, less inclined to reserve, 
and altogether more encouraging. But Geof- 
frey Treherne simply regarded this as the very 
natural result of his attentions. It was, of 
course, not likely, after all, that any rival should 
be successful against him, when it came to ac- 
tion : and yet, notwithstanding his certainty 
upon the subject, he felt more at ease when he 
found that his influence did not appear to be 
at all lessened, and in his security he forgot 
something of his hauteur, and was more conde- 


L indsay s L nek. 4 3 

scendingly familiar in his manner toward the 
object of his former distaste. 

“ This American seems to be a gentlemanly 
sort of young fellow/’ he said graciously, one day 
to Blanche. “ Not highly polished, of course, 
but good-natured enough, at all events, I think.” 

It so happened that this morning he had 
called earlier than usual, and had found Blanche 
and her friend in the garden with Rob, who 
was giving them the benefit of his floral expe- 
rience ; and Blanche, in gloves and a neat gar- 
den-blouse, was trimming one or two of her fa- 
vorite rose-bushes with a pair of keen little scis- 
sors. She was snipping away the dead leaves in 
a most scientific manner, when her companion 
vouchsafed this condescending patronage of 
her favorite ; and she went on snipping, a very 
charming picture of unconscious innocence, as 
she made her reply. 

“Now, do you really, Col. Treherne?” she 
said. “ How very kind in you to say so. This 
is a pretty rose isn’t it ? And how delighted” — 
snip, snip, snip — “ Mr. Lindsay would be if I 
were to tell him. Don’t you think so?” 


44 


Lindsay s Luck . 

Treherne looked down at her with reflective 
uneasiness. Her pretty straw hat hid her bent 
face from him, and the scissors in the small 
gloved hands were very busy ; but he was by 
no means a dullard, in spite of his arrogance, 
and he felt an uncomfortable sense of the fact 
that Miss Blanche Charnley was satirizing him 
rather cuttingly, and added to this, was an 
equally unpleasant consciousness that he had 
made himself slightly ridiculous. 

“ Pray, excuse me,” he began, stiffly. “ I was 
not aware that my words could contain any 
offence.” 

“ Oh, dear, no ! ” replied Blanche, with much 
delightful simplicity. “ Of course not. How 
could they? You see these people are not 
like we are. I dare say it is very likely that 
they don’t sneer at our pretensions. And, of 
course, Mr. Lindsay ought to be much obliged 
to you for your good opinion ; and if he wasn’t, 
it would be very ungrateful on his part. But 
then, do you know, Col. Treherne, I really don’t 
believe, taking all things into consideration, 
that I would patronize him more than was ab- 


Lindsay s Luck. 45 

solutely unavoidable. It might interfere with 
his natural feeling of deference, you see.” 

It was rather severe upon Treherne ; perhaps, 
a little too severe, upon the whole ; but Blanche 
Charnley was apt to be severe, occasionally ; 
and she had been wondering for some time if 
a quiet, suggestive lesson might not prove 
beneficial. Her sense of the ridiculous made 
her keenly alive to Geoffrey Treherne’s pecu- 
liarities, and besides, she was a little out of pa- 
tience with Laura ; so she went on to her next 
rose-bush in the significant silence that followed 
with a quiet consciousness of the fact that she 
had at least made a telling shot. 

There was a sort of uneasiness in Treherne’s 
manner during the remainder of his visit. He 
did not like Blanche Charnley very much, but 
he had a true English horror of making him- 
self absurd ; and the idea of having appeared 
absurd to Robert Lindsay was particularly dis- 
tasteful to him. Satirical as Blanche’s speech 
had been, it had suddenly' presented a new 
idea to his mind. Was it possible that this 
young fellow was quicker sighted than his care- 


46 


Lindsay s Luck. 


less gayety had led him to imagine? Once or 
twice he had fancied that he detected a thread 
of Blanche Charnley’s keen-edged sarcasm in 
his quietly daring speeches. 

These thoughts were very busy in his mind 
when, the young ladies having gone to change 
their gardening dresses, he found himself pro- 
menading one of the terraces with the cause of 
his late annoyance. 


Lindsay s Luck. 



CHAPTER IV. 

“ I THINK I HAVE SEEN THAT GLOVE BEFORE.” 

They had been walking to and fro for some 
minutes in silence, but at length it was broken 
by Lindsay himself. 

“ I have some excellent ‘ weeds ’ in my pock- 
et, Treherne/’ he said. “Allow me to offer you 
one. I brought them from Cuba myself.” 

It was a very pretty bead-embroidered ci- 
gar case that he produced, and the cigar Geof- 
frey Treherne accepted was the rarest and most 
fragrant of its kind ; but he scarcely looked at 
either cigar-case or cigar, after his first word 
of thanks ; his eyes had fallen upon something 
Lindsay had drawn from his pocket accidental- 
ly, and which had dropped upon the terrace 
near one of the young man’s shapely feet ; a 
very small article after all, but it had attracted 
Treherne’s attention in one instant. It was a 
pretty mauve glove with white silk tassels. 

The next minute Lindsay saw it too, and 


48 Lindsay s Luck . 

stooped to pick it up with the most collected 
of quiet faces. 

“ I think I have seen that glove before/’ said 
Treherne, stiffly, “or am I mistaken?” 

“ Why, no,” returned Rob, good-humoredly, 
“ I don't think you are mistaken. It is quite 
possible you have seen it before, I dare say. 
Won’t you have a light ? ” 

With the utmost composure, he had returned 
it to his pocket, and brought out a box of fuses, 
and having handed them to his companion he 
stopped his walk for a moment, to light his own 
cigar. 

“ I imagined I had seen Lady Laura wearing 
it,” said Treherne, helplessly. He was in a 
fever of impatience, and could scarcely govern 
himself. 

“ Possibly,” said Rob, puffing. “ The fact is, 
it did belong to Lady Laura,” with intermedi- 
ate puffs. 

“ Then you are a very fortunate individual,’’ 
commented Treherne, frigidly. 

Rob took his cigar from his mouth, looked at 
its glowing end for a moment, and then tossed 


Lindsays Luck. 


49 


his spent fuse away, looking as undiscomfited 
as ever, which was really very trying to his 
companion. 

“ No,” he said at last, “ I can’t say that I am 
very fortunate, Treherne; sometimes I am al- 
most inclined to think that I am rather unfor- 
tunate. Of course, Lady Laura did not give 
me her glove ; and, of course, I am not such a 
vaunting idiot as to pretend that she did. 
Neither am I such an idiot as to imagine that 
she would have given it to me if I had asked 
her. I found the glove and I kept it. It is a 
pretty glove, and, though it may not be a great 
loss to her, it is a great gain to me. I like to 
carry it about with me, and look at it some- 
times, an<£ that is how it fell from my pocket. 
I should not have mentioned it if you had not 
seen it ; and I should not have mentioned it if 
I had not wished it to be impossible for you to 
misunderstand Laura Tresham. Good cigars, 
these, arn’t they ? ” 

Treherne’s reply was somewhat incoherent. 
In fact he had never been so utterly taken 
aback in his life. There was a coolness about 


50 


Lindsay s Luck. 


this young man’s manner that was alto- 
gether too much for him. Trehernewas deter- 
mined to sift the matter as early as possible, 
and in his anxiety to sift it, he did a rather 
unwise thing. When Lady Laura came back 
again, he found himself alone with her for a 
moment ; he brought the conversation some- 
what abruptly to bear upon the subject most 
important to his ease of mind. 

“ This Japanese lily is a great favorite of 
Blanche’s,” said Lady Laura, tranquilly, as 
she bent over a flower ; “ and Mr. Lindsay 
says ” 

“ Our eccentric friend seems to be a great 
favorite,” interposed Treherne, in his secret 
anxiety. “ I wonder if you are aware that he 
carries one of your gloves in his pocket, Lady 
Laura ? ” 

A sudden pink flush flooded Lady Laura’s 
bent face in an instant, even touching the light 
waves of hair upon the white, low brow, 
and sweeping over the slender throat. Her 
confusion was so evident that Treherne found 
himself becoming slightly confused also, and 


Lindsay s Luck . 


51 


feeling more awkward than he had anticipated, 
and, accordingly, his next speech was an unfor- 
tunate one. 

“ He was good enough to explain to me,” he 
said, “ that you had no knowledge of the fact 
of his having it in his possession. He had 
found the glove he said, and kept it.” 

Lady Laura interrupted him, a little tremor 
stirring the folds of muslin over her neck, a 
dangerous glow in her eyes. 

“I ask pardon, Col. Treherne,” she said; 
“but may I inquire if you really felt it was 
necessary to catechise Mr. Lindsay concerning 
the manner of his obtaining possession of my 
glove ? ” 

Treherne was dumbfounded. For some rea- 
son, inexplicable to him, the young lady was 
evidently annoyed in no slight measure. He 
did not understand that the very pride he 
had admired as mating so well with his own, 
had arrayed itself against him. 

“ I am bound to say,” he explained loftily, 
“ that there was no necessity for so doing. 
Mr. Lindsay was honest enough to be desirous 


52 Lindsay s Liick. 

of making sure that there could be no mis- 
understanding/’ 

“ He was very kind,” replied Lady Laura, 
now feeling inconsistently severe against the 
delinquent. “ Very kind, indeed ; but he was 
mistaken in saying I did not know he had the 
glove. I saw him take it.” With that she 
turned away. 

Through his intense discomfiture, Col. Tre- 
herne left the Priory earlier than was custom- 
ary with him ; and it was after he had gone, 
that Rob Lindsay, sauntering into the drawing- 
room, found Lady Laura there, and was ad- 
dressed by that young lady in a very decided 
manner. 

“ I am glad you are here, Mr. Lindsay,” she 
said to him. “ I have just been wishing to see 
you. Col. Treherne tells me that you found 
the glove I lost, and — and that, in fact, you 
showed it to him a short time ago.” This last 
artful touch as punishment beforehand. 

For the first time in the course of her ac- 
quaintance with Mr. Rob Lindsay, Lady Laura 
had the pleasure of seeing him blush. The 


Lindsay s Luck. 


53 


color ran up to the roots of his curly-brown 
hair ; but it was not a blush of embarrassment,, 
It was clearly a flush of high, uncontrollable 
indignation. 

He walked deliberately to the bay-window. 

“ I ask pardon, Lady Laura,” he said, with 
a startling warmth. “ But may I ask if Col. 
Treherne said that I had exhibited your glove 
to him ? ” 

The sudden change from his usual careless 
gayety to this somewhat foreboding frankness 
of demeanor frightened her fair young lady- 
ship, in spite of herself. She actually felt her- 
self on the brink of being most ignominiously 
defeated, and Rob Lindsay, waiting for a re- 
ply, saw the blue-velvet eyes that matched the 
blue-velvet ribbons, change their expression. 

“ No,” faltered the young lady. “He merely 
said that — that he had seen it.” 

Rob's knitted forehead smoothed slightly. 

“Oh!” he said, more coolly. “That is a 
different matter, you see. I am rather glad to 
hear it too, because, if it had been otherwise, 
I should have been compelled to say that Col. 


54 


Lindsay s Luck. 


Treherne had not adhered strictly to the truth. 
I did not show Col. Treherne your glove, Lady 
Laura. It dropped out of my pocket acciden- 
tally, and he saw it, and I — well, I spoke the 
truth about it.” 

He had never looked better in his life than 
he did when he finished saying this, and leaned 
against the side of the bay-window, looking 
down at her with a spark of the fire which had 
not quite died out in his brown eyes. He saw 
that he had startled her a little, and, despite his 
smoldering wrath, he was tenderly sorry for it. 
He was not the man to feel he had frightened 
a woman ever so slightly by any thoughtless 
warmth of speech, without a chivalrous re- 
gret. 

“You must excuse my seeming abruptness, 
Lady Laura,” he said, in his good-natured, 
frank fashion. “ I misunderstood you at first, 
and if Treherne had really given you the im- 
pression that I had boasted of my luck in find- 
ing the glove, he would have given you a 
false impression, and one which must neces- 
sarily have made me appear contemptible in 


L i net 1 say ’ s L uck . 5 5 

your eyes, and I could not stand that, you 
know. ” 

“ I cannot understand,” said Lady Laura, her 
attempt at making a strong point a terrible fail- 
ure. “I really cannot understand why you 
took the glove in the first place. It was very 
absurd, and you must know that — that it has 
made me appear very absurd too.” 

“Absurd ! ” said Rob. “ In whose eyes, Lady 
Laura ? ” 

“ In my own,” she faltered, coloring until 
she looked like one of Blanche’s pink verbenas ; 
“ in Col. Treherne’s, and — and in yours.” This 
last with great weakness. 

“ Not in mine,” said Rob, exhibiting 
great cheerfulness. “ Don’t say that, if you 
please.” 

“But I mean it,” returned Laura, breaking 
off a rose-geranium leaf, and trying to regain 
her coldness of manner. “ You have made me 
feel absurd, at least, you have placed me in a 
very annoying position, Mr. Lindsay. Why, it 
is impossible for me to understand.” 

Rob looked down again for a moment, with 


56 


Lindsay's Luck. 


a meditative air, at the averted face, and the 
white hand toying nervously with the gera- 
nium-leaf, and then he turned his eyes away 
toward the garden, and, forgetting himself for 
the time being, first whistled softly, and then 
stopped. 

“Ah ! Why, indeed ! ” he said. 

H aving crushed the perfume out of one leaf, 
Lady Laura threw it away, and took another, 
and began again, utterly ignoring both whistle 
and exclamation. 

“ H aving subjected me to this annoyance, 
you subject me to still another/’ she said. 
“ The annoyance of asking you to return the 
glove to me.” 

Rob’s countenance fell somewhat. 

“ I am sorry that I have subjected you to 
any annoyance,” he said, with honest peni- 
tence. “Very sorry, Lady Laura; but I be- 
lieve I am quite as sorry to hear you say you 
want your glove again. Of course, you don’t 
care for any reasons I may have for wishing to 
keep it. It is a little thing to you, and you 
can afford to ignore it, as you do, but ” 


Lindsay s Luck . 


57 


“ I was not aware that I ignored anything/’ 
interposed Laura, inconsistently. 

Rob went on calmly. 

“ But I can assure you it is a matter of more 
importance to me. But that doesn’t matter^ 
does it ? ” 

He stopped here, and drew the glove from 
his pocket ; but he did not offer it to her at 
once. He held it in his hand, and looked at 
it a little regretfully and sadly. 

“A very little thing to ask for,” he said. 
“ And a very little thing to prize, it might 
seem ; but I prize it, nevertheless. A very 
little thing to be refused, too* is it not, after all ? 
But, as I suppose Treherne has a greater right 
to it than I, why, here it is, Lady Laura, ” and 
he laid it upon the little work table of Blanche’s, 
which stood between them, therein exhibiting 
more discretion and diplomacy than one would 
have expected of so frank a young man. 

I have already spoken of this unconventional 
Rob's great physical beauty, and of the effect 
it was apt to produce in the way of softening 
people's hearts toward him ; so you will not be 


58 


Lindsay s Luck . 


surprised at being told Laura Tresham was 
softened a little. This momentary look of re- 
gretfulness was very becoming to him, withal, 
and he had been straightforward and regardful 
for her, at least. And then a half-worn glove 
was such a little thing. And then — well, she 
looked up at his handsome brown face, and his 
handsome brown eyes, and relented somewhat. 
Besides, had he not intimated that his rival had 
a right, which that rival had not ? 

So the glove lay untouched upon the table. 

“Col. Treherne has no right to it,” she said, 
with some degree of hauteur. “ He has no right 
that you or any other friend of mine has not.” 

“Friend?” was Rob’s quiet echo. 

“ I believe I said friend,” she answered. 

But she did not attempt to take the glove, 
and when, a few minutes later, Blanche called 
to her from the garden, she turned to obey the 
summons as though she had forgotten it ; and 
when Rob drew her attention to it, she paused 
a moment, hesitating. 

“ It is of no value to me,” she said, care- 
lessly, at length. “ I don’t know where its feb 


Lindsay s Luck . 


59 


low is, and I should not wear it if I did. If 
you wish to keep it you may, since perhaps that 
will prove to you that no one has the right to 
dispose of it but myself.” 

Rob took the glove in his hand, swinging it 
lightly by its silken tassels, his comely face 
brightening. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “I do want it, and 
I suppose the speech I am going to make is 
rather an audacious one, but I can scarcely 
help making it, notwithstanding. The fact is, 
Lady Laura, I should not like to feel that the 
annoyance I have caused you has forced from 
you the gift I value so highly.” 

“ It is certainly not a matter of compulsion,” 
she said briefly. 

“ Thank you, again,” answered Rob, all the 
cheerfulness in the world expressing itself in 
his composure of manner. 

And as Lady Laura left the room, the mauve 
glove, for which Geoffrey Treherne would have 
given something very considerable, was quietly 
replaced in the pocket, from which, to Geoffrey 
Treherne’s blank amazement, it had dropped a 
few moments before. 


6o 


Lindsay s I^nck* 


CHAPTER V. 

WITH THE ODDS AGAINST HIM. 

But, with true feminine inconsistency, almost 
before she had reached Blanche, Lady Laura 
had repented her impulse of generosity some- 
what, Notwithstanding the malicious turn of 
Fortune’s wheel against him, Geoffrey Treherne 
had by no means wholly lost his power over 
her, and her inward conjectures as to what his 
exact opinions w r ould be if he knew the truth, 
made her feel slightly conscience-stricken. She 
could not altogether resist the idea that if 
chance should reveal to him this little incident 
as it had revealed to him the other, the result 
would be the very natural one of some slight 
embarrassment being entailed upon her, not- 
withstanding the fact that she had left him to 
draw his own conclusions on the subject but a 
short time before. But then she had been very 
securely innocent, and now — was she ? Was 
she as securely innocent regarding Mr. Lind- 


Lindsay s Luck. 


6 1 


say himself? Had she been very secure when 
she had looked up at his honest, indignant face 
with that little guilty thrill of fear and admira- 
tion ? She had tried to believe at the time 
that it was only a thrill of surprise, having its 
foundation in the sudden knowledge that this 
immovable person could flash into such becom- 
ing wrath ; but it did not require many mo- 
ments’ consideration to force upon her that it 
was a guilty thrill, and had held its own unpleas- 
ant significance. She remembered, too, unwill- 
ingly, times when Robert Lindsay’s straight- 
forward speeches, and practical, frank ways, 
had given her something of the same thrill be- 
fore ; and when, by contrast with other men 
she knew, and had in some sort admired a lit- 
tle, he had seemed worthy of any woman’s re- 
spect and friendship ; yes, even worthy of the 
love of any woman who was endowed with a 
woman’s natural love of fearlessness and hon- 
esty. But then it would never do to encourage 
Robert Lindsay, nevertheless. The fact is, 
that, stately as she was in her girlish way, 
Lady Laura Tresham was a terrible coward. 


62 


Lindsay s Luck. 


and in her mind there was a very natural awe of 
the weighty individual who was something stu- 
pendous in Chancery. She had stood in awe 
of this gentleman from the first hour of her 
wardship, and even now, in her young ladyhood, 
she was as much afraid of him as ever. She 
had heard him discourse with stupendous solid- 
ity of eloquence upon William the Conqueror, 
and the barriers of society, and the stately obli- 
gations under which the unfortunate descen- 
dants of William the Conqueror and his court 
had been placed by those august personages 
having condescended to be born, and live, and 
“ come over” and establish a somewhat intru- 
sive authority over unborn generations. Lady 
Laura’s guardian held as a religious creed, to 
be religiously sustained, that the circumstances 
of a stately Norman noble having been called 
Basil de Tresham, entailed upon this velvet- 
eyed, golden-haired young lady, descended 
from him, the necessity of being solidly majes- 
tic also ; and that all the velvet-eyed, golden- 
haired young lady’s little, secret, tender preju- 
dices must be crushed under the brazen idol 


Lindsay s Luck* 


63 


of her name’s antiquity. So, with her guardian 
and the brazen idol constantly before her as 
models, it is no wonder that Lady Laura had 
innocently fallen into a groove of opinion not 
unlike them, unless in its being softened and 
made prettier by the fanciful form it adopted. 
But, nevertheless, she had been rather tired of 
William of Normandy and Basil de Tresham, 
sometimes. Now and then her guardian had 
tired her, and now and then she had been tired 
of his aristocratic eligibles, when they appeared 
(as they not unfrequently did) in the form of 
languid dandies, who wore faultless dress-coats, 
and neck-ties, and gloves, and parted their hair 
in the middle, and were loftily conscious of their 
families belonging to the peerage, and their 
rent rolls representing themselves through the 
medium of a respectable row of figuies. But she 
had never been tired of Rob Lindsay. The 
young man had a very simple way of accounting 
for himself, and was very practically straight- 
forward in his assertions that he had nothing 
to boast of in the matter of pedigree. 

“You see,” he had said, on their first discus- 


64 


Lindsay s Luck. 


sion of the subject, “ it cannot possibly matter 
to one now, as I understand it, whether the 
founder of the family (that’s what you call it, 
isn’t it?) was an illustrious individual or a plow- 
man who bought his bread and cheese with 
sixpence a day. The family was founded, you 
know, and the man’s dead, and this generation 
has arrived at — Robert Lindsay ; and with 
Robert Lindsay lies the rest, honor or dishon- 
or. And it really seems to me, Mrs. Charnley 
and Miss Blanche, that the settling of such a 
question rightly has nobility enough in it with- 
out troubling one’s self about a man who has 
mouldered centuries ago, and who was not to be 
blamed or praised for either the sixpence or 
the bread and cheese, or on the other hand, for 
the series of lucky accidents that made him a 
baron.” 

Thus had Mr. Robert Lindsay expressed 
himself, and thus had Lady Laura heard him 
with a sense of recognizing a fresh and not un- 

o o 

pleasant novelty in the speech, despite its rank 
heresy. Still, it is not to be. supposed that even 
such honest observations as these could over- 


Lindsay s Luck. 


65 


come the prejudices of a lifetime at once. But 
they had impressed Lady Laura through all her 
girlish pride in name and birth ; and this day 
her remembrance of them made her feel like a 
young lady who had been self-convicted of 
heresy and falseness to the inherited creed of 
her forefathers. 

So, feeling after this manner, she repented 
her generosity, and as the tide of her thoughts 
turned, blamed Rob Lindsay for both generosity 
and repentance, which was unjust, to say the 
least of it. She made up her mind, during the 
day’s uneasiness that followed, that from this 
time forward Mr. Robert Lindsay must really 
be effectually checked. Accordingly, she ap- 
plied herself to the task of checking him, and 
stood upon guard with great vigilance. Per- 
haps Rob was somewhat surprised ; perhaps, 
being prone to deeper thought than society in 
general imagined, the result was not so great a 
surprise to him as might have been expected. 
But, as it is customary with story-tellers to re- 
veal to the public the private soliloquies of the 
principal characters, whether plotters or plotted 


66 


Lindsay s Luck . 


against, who play parts in their stories, I will 
record a simple soliloquy of my hero’s, which 
arose from the occurrence of several untoward 
events. 

It was about a week from the morning of the 
interview in the bay-window, when, during one 
evening, Col. Treherne having called, Col. Tre- 
herne’s star had seemed very plainly in the 
ascendant, and Rob, upon retiring for the night, 
had, perhaps, felt a thought depressed, in spite 
of his usual elasticity of spirit. He had not ad- 
vanced at all, and fate had been so far against 
him that he had, for the first time, felt himself at 
some slight disadvantage among the little party 
of Treherne’s friends, who had followed that 
gentleman’s august example in paying visits to 
the Priory, and addressing the Rev. Norman’s 
household goddesses. They were polished, 
good-natured men, upon the whole, and by no 
means dullards in any sense ; they had every 
advantage of wealth and pedigree, and Wil- 
liam the Conqueror had done his best for them, 
so that not Basil de Tresham himself could 
have caviled at their antecedents ; and, cheer- 


Lindsays Luck . 


67 


ful as he usually was, Rob had felt this a little ; 
and he had felt also with a faint, natural sting, 
that the best-natured of them felt, however 
unconsciously and good-naturedly, that this 
stranger was scarcely of themselves. But he 
had borne up against it well, and his genial 
gayety had engendered an unusual feeling of 
friendship and cordiality toward him, which, 
together with Blanche’s thoroughbred tactful- 
ness, had saved him from what might have 
been a greater bitterness ; and when he went 
to his room, he was not, after all, as discom- 
posed as a less cheerful, well-natured individual 
might have been. Then it was that he gave 
utterance to the soliloquy which I regard it as 
my privilege to record. He had paced the 
floor with some degree of restlessness, at first, 
but he had cooled off at length, and brighten- 
ing a little, he stopped, and taking the mauve 
glove from its hiding-place, kissed it. 

“ Fate goes against a man sometimes,” he 
said, with renewed courage of tone ; “ but 
what is worth winning is worth waiting for. 
If your hand was in it, Laura ” kissing the 


68 


Lindsay s Luck. 


glove again. “ But, as it is not, I suppose I 
may as well console myself with the fact that 
I have the glove, and Treherne has not — which 
is one step forward, at least.” 

And in the bright, cozy little dressing-room, 
only a few yards away, another step forward 
was being taken in which he had no share. 

With a girl’s quick instinct, Laura had ob- 
served his slight discomfiture, and had dwelt 
upon it, as it might be, as a means of self-de- 
fense. It would be less difficult to be strong 
against a man who was at a disadvantage, than 
against a man who was popular, high-spirited, 
and successful. In a little flash of triumph, 
for which she secretly despised herself, she 
had been incautious enough to bring the con- 
versation to bear upon the subject, in hopes 
that Blanche might unconsciously second her; 
but the result of her manoeuvre was by no 
means favorable. 

“ It seems really unaccountable to me, 
Laura,” said Blanche, “that you dislike Mr. 
Lindsay so. I am sure he is very nice, and I 
am sure he likes you* I don't agree with you 


Lindsay s Luck. 


69 


in the least, either, about his being awkward ; 
and I thought he never appeared to a greater 
advantage than he did this evening, when the 
‘ odds were against him/ as Ralph would say.” 
Laura elevated her lovely eyebrows. 

“ Of course, ‘ the odds ’ were against him,” 
Blanche went on. “ One couldn’t help seeing 
that, and seeing, too, that he felt it a little. 
But which of the men who were here this even- 
ing would have sustained themselves as coolly 
under the circumstances? Did you see how 
good-humoredly he put down that detest- 
able little Vicars, when he pretended to have 
forgotten his name? It reminded me of Lion 
patronizing Ralph’s terrier. The Honorable 
little Eustace will never snub him again, you 
may depend upon that, my dear.” 

For private reasons of her own, Laura for- 
bore to make any comment upon the subject. 
Women naturally favor the stronger party; 
and Rob Lindsay so often showed himself the 
stronger party, through virtue of his peculiar 
coolness of demeanor. He had shown him- 
self the stronger party when he had made his 


70 


Lindsay s Luck. 


composed reply to the little Honorable, which 
reply had so successfully nonplussed that small 
scion of a noble house, and caused him to be 
covered with confusion as with a garment. He 
was showing himself the stronger party now, 
since Blanche Charnley had been enlisted in 
his favor with her whole battery of satirical 
speeches. Lady Laura changed the subject. 

“ Didn’t I hear Mr. Charnley say something 
about the probability of your brother’s return- 
ing shortly?” she asked, for the simple reason 
that she had nothing more apropos to say. 

“ Yes,” answered Blanche. “ I forgot to tell 
you, by-the-by. Papa had a letter from him 
this morning. He says we may expect him in 
a day or two. I was glad to hear it, for I was 
afraid he would not be here in time to see 
Robert Lindsay ; and I know Ralph will like 
Robert Lindsay.” 

Laura subsided into silence in despair. Rob- 
ert Lindsay again ! Was it impossible to avoid 
Robert Lindsay under any circumstances ? 

Blanche did not remain in the room as long 
as usual that night. After her last speech, 


Lindsay s Luck. 




Laura was not inclined to be very communica- 
tive, so, after a few minutes’ vain endeavor to 
rouse her to her customary animation, Blanche 
rose to go, and coming behind the chair on 
which the graceful, blue-robed figure sat, she 
lifted a mass of the pretty bright amber hair 
in her hands, and, after holding it for a mo- 
ment in an affectionate, caressing, thoughtful 
fashion, she bent over and kissed her friend's 
smooth, carmine-tinted cheek. 

“ Good-night ! ” she said, in a manner lighter 
than her pretty action had been, “ and pleas- 
ant dreams ! Ah ! my fair, careless goddess, 
what a charming thing it would be if you were 
only not my Lady Laura Tresham.” 

A few days later Ralph Charnley returned 
from Oxford, and, through his arrival, fortune 
worked very industriously against Robert Lind- 
say. Ralph Charnley was a gay, dashing, as- 
tute young fellow, noticeable chiefly for a won- 
derful exuberance of spirits. He was a popular 
man, withal, among the country-side aristocracy; 
and his return was the signal for a fresh in- 
flux of company, and a new stock of amuse- 


72 


Lindsay s Luck. 


ments. There came picnics in the Guestwick 
woods, evening parties, excursions to the little 
neighboring seaport town for moonlight sails ; 
and, in the general bustle of gayety and con- 
fusion, Rob Lindsay found himself separated 
quite as effectually from the object of his ad- 
miration by a single dignified dowager, or a 
pretty, chattering girl, as he could have been 
by the Atlantic Ocean itself. As Blanche had 
predicted, Ralph conceived a wonderful fancy 
for him, and before a week had passed they 
were almost inseparable. Ralph had a true 
English love of sport, and Rob, with his re- 
membrances of wild adventure, had a great 
power of fascination in his less experienced 
eyes. His sporting seasons had comprised 
more than a few day-shots, fired in roaming 
over a preserve with an attendant game-keeper 
in the rear, and iced wines and game pies wait- 
ing somewhere in the shade. He had lain by 
his camp-fire through long starlit nights, and 
hunted through long days of an excitement not 
without its peril. He had killed as much game 
in two months as the highly respectable keepers 


Lindsay s Luck. 


/ 3 

of the Guestwick preserves could have killed 
in two years, even though the Guestwick pre- 
serves were considered something quite worth 
boasting about. Thus Ralph Charnley’s inter- 
est increased daily, and was finally not un- 
mixed with admiration. 

“ He is a first-rate fellow, that Lindsay,” he 
said to Blanche, one evening. “ What a favor- 
ite he would be at such a place as Oxford or 
Cambridge, where men find their level. We 
had just such a fellow at Oxford once — a 
Scotchman ; and he was the most popular man 
there. Just such a fellow as Lindsay, and had 
lived just the same life, I suppose ; and he 
could ride, and shoot, and fence like the deuce. 
I ask pardon, Lady Laura. It is odd, too, how 
gentle such men generally are. You don’t find 
such magnanimity and tenderness in men with 
insignificant muscles. Douglas — that was the 
Scotchman’s name — had a little sister — a tiny, 
deformed creature, with a w r asted body, and 
big, seraphic eyes ; and he used to wait on her 
like a woman. Some of the men had been to 
his mother’s house, and they said that when 


74 


Lindsay s Ltick . 


the child was in one of her paroxysms of pain, 
no one could touch her but Douglas ; and when 
she died, she died in his arms. That is one 
reason why I say Lindsay is like him. It ap- 
pears there is just such another pitiful little 
creature in one of the cottages near here, and 
the under-gardener tells me that Lindsay has 
taken a fancy to her; goes to see her almost 
every day; and the child fairly lives in his 
visits. I believe he is there now.” 

“ He never mentioned it to us,” said Blanche. 
“ I wonder how it was? ” 

“ Oh, he is not likely to mention it!” said 
Ralph. “ He isn’t that sort of fellow, you see. 
Men of his kind are not apt to talk about what 
they do. If I were a woman, I would trust my 
life to such a man as Lindsay, without a copper 
farthing, rather than trust it to William the 
Conqueror himself.” 

Necessarily, this was rather an aggravation 
of her wrongs, to the young lady, who sat at 
a little distance, diligently endeavoring to con- 
centrate her attention upon the little basket of 
gay flosses and wools on her knee. Her small 


Lindsay s Luck . 


75 


ears were gradually warming until she almost 
fancied that their glow must be perceptible. 
If this state of affairs lasted much longer, it 
would be useless to contend against the tide of 
public opinion. 

If she had given her secret inclination the 
rein at that moment, forgetting Basil de Tresh- 
am and the awe-inspiring Chancellor, Lind- 
say’s chance of success would have been a very 
good one. But that was not so easy as might 
appear to the uninitiated. Of course, she did 
not love Robert Lindsay as yet, and really she 
was secretly very much afraid of her guardian. 
And then Geoffrey Treherne ? If Geoffrey Tre- 
herne had been less eligible, or the Chancel- 
lor less pompously imposing, Ralph Charnley’s 
words would have turned the tide wondrous- 
ly that bright autumn morning. But as it was, 
she did not love Robert Lindsay yet. So she 
was saying mentally. She was safe yet, and 
might she net make herself safer still by saying 
yes to the momentous question, which Geoffrey 
Treherne had asked her the night before? She 
was almost desperate enough to be driven to 


Lindsay s Luck, 


76 

do so, even while she had scarcely decided as 
yet that Geoffrey Treherne was more to her 
than Robert Lindsay. 

The Charnleys had arranged for the next 
day one of the jolly, unique little excursions 
for which they were so justly celebrated. It 
was to be a shooting party, and, after the gen- 
tlemen had spent the earlier part of the morn- 
ing on the moors, they were to repair to a place 
of rendezvous, where the ladies and luncheon 
would await them. Then it was that Geoffrey 
Treherne was to be answered, in consideration 
of some nervous hesitation on Laura’s part the 
preceding evening. Nothing was clearer than 
that the gentleman was not fearful of failure. 
It could scarcely be otherwise than that he 
should be successful ; and this tranquil belief 
his manner had plainly demonstrated. 

Lady Laura scarcely regarded the excursion 
with any degree of pleasurable anticipation. 
The truth was, she had some slight dread of it. 
Perhaps she was a little afraid of her august 
lover, or, at least, sufficiently so to make a 
negative somewhat difficult to pronounce. It 


Lindsay s Luck. 


77 


was so evident that he expected a “ yes,” that 
it would not be by any means an easy matter 
to surprise him with a “no.” 

“ I have actually no choice left,” she ex- 
claimed, unconsciously, with pathetic helpless- 
ness. “ Oh, dear ! what shall I do?” 

Ralph had just left the room, and Blanche 
was readiifg, consequently the perfect stillness 
was broken by the sound of her voice. 

“No choice about what ?” asked Blanche, 
surprisedly, dropping her book. “ What have 
you no choice about, Laura?” 

“ Only some wools,” was the diplomatic re- 
ply. “ I can’t decide which to choose, rose or 
blue. I don’t think I shall work any more. I 
am losing patience.” 


7 $ 


Lindsay s Luck . 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE TREHERNE DIAMOND. 

To every one but Lady Laura the shooting 
party was a perfect success. The weather was 
cool and bright, the spirits of all in most ex- 
cellent order; the feminine portion conscious 
of appearing to great advantage ; the masculine 
half conscious of being in the best of humors, 
and highly satisfied with the prospect before 
them. All the morning the report of numer- 
ous guns sounded over the moorlands, and the 
purple heather-bells h^d been stained a deeper 
color as the little, fluttering victims fell ; for, as 
it was the first of September, the slaughter of 
the innocents was to be ushered in with eclat. 

At twelve o’clock the Charnley carriage had 
set down at the place of rendezvous its cargo 
of half-a-dozen pretty girls, and almost as many 
delicate little hampers ; and Col. Treherne’s re- 
spectful and respectable man-servant, with an 
assistant, was moving respectfully here and 


Lindsay s Luck . 


79 


there, drawing forth from inexhaustible cor- 
ners wonderfully compact arrangements for 
the further development of a delicate, compact 
luncheon, so-called. Said luncheon was in a 
temptingly complete state when the report of 
the guns began to sound nearer, and then 
ceased ; and soon the shooting party made 
their appearance, followed by the attendant 
game-keeper, hungry, elated, and not by any 
means in reduced spirits. 

Behold Geoffrey Treherne, in a faultless 
velvet shooting-costume of Lincoln green ; be- 
hold Ralph Charnley, in a brown one ; behold 
divers other eligibles, in divers other faultless 
costumes, and last, but not least, Robert Lind- 
say, surpassing himself in the matter of good 
looks, and wonderfully surpassing the rest, with 
the aid of shooting-costume, and his muscular, 
well-knit figure and comely face. 

Lady Laura, standing a little apart, under a 
huge oak-tree, and looking particularly girlish 
and lovely, as she persistently worked her par- 
asol into the moss at the tree’s root, glanced 
up as the sportsmen approached, and favored 


8o 


Lindsay s Luck. 


them, comprehensively, with a bow. It was 
not intended for Treherne, individually, and it 
was certainly not intended for Rob Lindsay ; 
but both gentlemen acknowledged it markedly 
— Treherne with a gratified composure of man- 
ner, and Rob with a slight, deferential raising of 
his hat from the crisp, brown, close curls. From 
the general interest displayed by the party, it 
was very evident that, in some sort, Mr. Robert 
Lindsay had distinguished himself in the pub- 
lic opinion. There was much cordial commen- 
dation of his prowess, and much deferring to his 
modestly expressed opinion on sporting sub- 
jects, over the luncheon. The Honorable little 
Eustace had plainly changed his mind about 
patronizing the big, good-humored young fel- 
low ; and, amid the popping of champagne 
corks, Mr. Rob Lindsay became, after a mild 
fashion, a retiring Nimrodian hero. 

u He was the best shot among us, Lady 
Laura/’ eulogized Ralph Charnley, who was 
taking his luncheon with unconventional ease, 
on the sward at that young lady’s feet. “ And 
some of the fellows were pretty good shots, too. 


Lindsay s Luck. 


8 1 


I wish you could have seen the way he brought 
down a pheasant Treherne missed.” 

“ I thought Col. Treherne was an old sports- 
man/’ said Laura, with meditative annoyance. 

“ So he is,” answered Ralph. “ But he is not 
up to Lindsay. The fact is, Lady Laura, 
Lindsay is one of a thousand, in my opinion. 
He is a living proof of my theory that a man 
can exist without a great-great-grandfather. 
See what a splendid fellow he is ; look at his 
physique, and then compare him with that lit- 
tle snob Vicars. And I really am not sure 
whether the founder of the Vicars family was 
not William of Normandy himself, or Wil- 
liam of Normandy’s aunt. Men like Lindsay, 
strong, fearless, quick-witted fellows, are what 
the world wants in these days ; and they are 
more sparsely scattered than they should 
be.” 

Thus, through nearly half the hour spent 
round the luncheon, and then, as she loitered 
over her plate, Lady Laura was favored with 
another expression of the public opinion, com- 
ing from a sturdy game-keeper, in drab leg- 


82 Lindsay s Luck. 

gings, who stood a few paces from her, talking 
to Treherne’s man-servant. 

“ He bean’t no fool, that American chap,” 
sagaciously commented he of the leggings. 
“ They can’t none on ’em beat him, I tell you, 
my lad. No bangin’ away and hittin’ nowt fur 
him. What he bangs at is bound to coom 
down. An’ he’s a fine, hearty-natured young 
chap, too — cheerful like, an pleasant i’ his 
ways. It’s him as is so kindly to that little, 
weakly thing o’ Jarvis’s.” 

Then it was that, under the accumulation of 
her trials, Laura Tresham came to a desperate 
resolve. What that resolve was may be easily 
guessed by what followed as a result. When 
Geoffrey Treherne took the place Ralph Charn- 
ley had vacated, she received him with great 
steadiness of demeanor. It could scarcely be 
said that her manner was encouraging, as far as 
any cordiality might be concerned, for it really 
was not ; still it was not actually discouraging ; 
and from that time until the party separated, 
the gentleman scarcely left her side, and was so 
composedly assiduous in his attentions, indeed, 


Lindsay s Luck . 


83 


that his air had almost a tender authority in it. 
As for Lady Laura herself she really appeared 
to be in a singular mood. She looked a little 
excited, and, once or twice, a false note strange- 
ly shook the usual even sweetness of her voice. 
Above all other things, Blanche Charnley 
noticed that she persistently avoided Robert 
Lindsay. She even diplomatized a little to 
avoid encountering him when they reached the 
Priory, and immediately after tea was over, she 
went to her room upon plea of indisposition. 

It was about two hours later that Blanche, 
following her up stairs, and going to her cham- 
ber found her sitting there alone with an open 
book in her hand. She was not reading, how- 
ever, and scarcely appeared to have been doing 
so. The light of the tapers upon the dressing- 
table showed two bright pink spots glowing 
on her cheeks, and a suspicious glitter in her 
eyes. 

When Blanche entered, she half-closed the 
book, suddenly, still her forefinger, however, 
between the pages. She had not retired, she 
explained, because her head had ached too bad- 


84 Lindsay s Luck . 

ly, and now it was better, and she had been 
reading. 

There was a new anxiety in Blanche’s mind, 
as she took a seat upon the lounge near her 
friend. Geoffrey Treherne’s tender assiduity 
had held its own significance to her, and she 
was anxious to sift the truth to the bottom. 
But as, of course, it would not do to approach 
the subject at once, she chattered away with 
her usual animation, and let the conversation 
take its own turn ; and at last it drifted, as if 
by chance, to Geoffrey Treherne himself, and, 
finally, upon a ring Geoffrey Treherne had that 
day worn. 

It was a singular affair, this ring ; a single, 
great flashing diamond, set like a crystal tear- 
drop upon the merest slender thread of gold. 
It had belonged to the Trehernes since the 
first Treherne had set it upon the betrothal-fin- 
ger of the first English bride of their house ; 

o o 7 

and from generation to generation it had been 
handed down as betrothal-ring for scores of fair 
brides. There was a sort of superstition at- 
tached to it, Blanche said. Those who wore it 


Lindsay s Luck. 


35 


were bound with a magic tie to their liege 
lords, and no woman could ever be freed from 
the spell, who had worn it if only for an hour. 

But as she related her legend, Blanche ob- 
served that the pink spots on Laura’s cheeks 
glowed deeper until they had almost deepened 
to scarlet. She w r as somewhat uneasy, it 
seemed, even at first, under the recital ; but 
when the last touch of superstitious belief was 
added, the scarlet suddenly faded, and the book 
she had lightly held slipped away from her de- 
taining finger, and fell upon the carpet at her 
feet. She stooped to pick it up instantly ; but 
as she raised it, Blanche suddenly uttered an 
exclamation, and, catching her hand, held it up 
to the light of the waxen tapers. 

“ Laura ! ” she exclaimed, actual tears of de- 
spair and disappointment starting to her eyes. 
“ Oh, Laura! what have you done?” For 
there, upon the slender forefinger, glittered the 
flashing diamond, imprisoned by the slender 
thread of gold — the Treherne diamond, which 
had held so many Treherne brides to their faith 
by the power of its magic spell. 


86 


Lindsay s Luck. 


“Tell me the truth/’ demanded Blanche 

“ It doesn’t mean — Laura, it can’t mean ” 

And there she stopped. 

Lady Laura drew her hand away, not blush- 
ing, as a young lady might have been expected 
to do under the circumstances. Indeed, if the 
truth must be told, she looked slightly impa- 
tient, in spite of her little, nervous laugh. 

“Yes, it does ‘ mean,’ Blanche,” she said. 
“ It means that the spell is upon me too. It 
means that I am engaged to Geoffrey Tre- 
herne ! ” 


Lindsay s Luck. 


3 7 


CHAPTER VII. 

A DIFFICULT POSITION. 

The ominous gold-imprisoned crystal had 
flashed upon Laura T resham’s Anger for some 
short time, when a slow, new doubt gradually 
unfolded itself to her mental vision. Of course, 
in these days Geoffrey Treherne’s visits had 
become an established custom, attended with 
less ceremony than they had formerly been, 
and, of course, the members of the household 
understood their portent. In his triumph over 
his rival, Geoffrey Treherne had been in a man- 
ner loftily gracious. He could afford to be 
gracious now, and perhaps some slight pity 
for Lindsay rendered him more gracious than 
he would have been otherwise. 

Naturally it could not be otherwise, than 
that, upon the first knowledge of the truth, 
Robert Lindsay was, for the time, dashed and 
overcome. He had scarcely expected such ill- 
fortune, at the worst, and since it was unantici- 


88 


Lindsay s Lack . 


pated, it was all the harder to bear. The first 
day he was somewhat more silent than usual, 
and his cheerfulness of spirits seemed to have 
forsaken him ; but the second day he bright- 
ened up a little, and having spent the third out 
upon the moorlands, shooting with Ralph, he 
returned in the evening with a well-laden game 
pouch, and, to all appearance, a fresh stock of 
spirits. From that time he did not alter his 
manner toward Lady Laura in the least. Lie 
was as unvaryingly good-humored as ever, and as 
cheerfully unmoved by any coldness or avoid- 
ance on her part. Even Blanche, with all her 
penetration, was puzzled. He might have been 
acting in accordance with some steady, pur- 
poseful resolution. 

In the first flush of her fancied security, Lady 
Laura convinced herself that her position was 
not an unpleasant one after all. True, she had 
pledged herself, and must, at some not-too-far- 
away period, fulfill her pledge ; but then she 
was safe ; and just at this critical time safety 
was a very desirable object to be attained. 

But this was just at first. The excitement 


Lindsay s Luck. 


89 


worn away somewhat, she did not feel quite so 
easy — she did not even feel quite so sure of her 
safety ; and, before two weeks had passed, once 
or twice an occasional unpleasant secret fear 
had forced itself upon her — the fear that per- 
haps she had made her throw rashly, and 
staked a good deal for a safety not so secure as 
she had imagined it would prove. 

Coming in from the garden one day, she 
stopped in a little conservatory, opening upon 
one of the parlors, and as she paused to ex- 
amine a newly-opened flower, she saw through 
the glass doors that Blanche Charnley and 
Robert Lindsay were in the adjoining room 
together, and she caught the sound of the fol- 
lowing comprehensive sentence, deliberately 
enunciated as though in continuation of some 
before-expressed opinion by the gentleman : 

“And when a woman, through any foolish 
fancy, or misguided pride, sacrifices herself to 
the wretchedness of marrying a man she does 
not love, her life will be a bitter wreck of all 
she has hoped for. And, on the honor of a 
gentleman, Miss Blanche, I believe that the 


90 


Lindsay s Luck . 


man who might save her from such misery, 
and does not dare the risk, is not only unstable 
and weak of purpose, but is unworthy of his 
manhood. ” 

Laura waited to hear no more. She had 
heard quite enough to prove to her that certain 
suspicions she had felt were by no means with- 
out foundation, and she hurried away. Here 
was a daring lover indeed ! What reasons had 
he for supposing she did not love Geoffrey Tre- 
herne as a woman should love the man she 
marries? She had certainly not been demon- 
strative in hfcr manner toward him ; but then 
she never was very demonstrative, and she had 
tried very hard not to appear cold. Robert 
Lindsay was insolent, presuming, audacious, 
but then how was she to withstand his audacity? 
It seemed sheerly impossible. She had ex- 
hausted all her feminine resources of coldness 
and hauteur, and this was the result. Was ever 
young lady in such a strait before ? — absolutely 
in danger of being overcome in spite of her- 
self, by a quietly-persistent, cheerful lover, who 
most incomprehensibly refused to be rebuffed, 


Lindsay s Luck . 


9 1 


refused to be overwhelmed, refused to submit 
to circumstances, and insisted upon retaining 
his spirits, and enjoying himself in the face of 
everything ! She was so influenced by her ad- 
verse fate, that, during the remainder of the 
day, she was incomprehensible also. She looked 
uneasy; she lost her beautiful composure ot 
manner; she was actually a little cross to 
Blanche, and she treated Rob Lindsay worse 
than she had ever treated him before. 

Running into Lady Laura’s room accidentally 
while she was dressing, Blanche found her friend 
in tears, and was surprised to find her sympa- 
thetic advances rejected somewhat unamiably. 

“ Please don’t pity me, Blanche,” she said, 
with most unaccountable tartness. “ I don’t 
want to be pitied, my dear. I have got the 
headache, and I am cross, and out of humor 
with everybody.” 

Blanche left her without expressing any fur- 
ther sympathy, and, going down stairs again, 
innocently revealed the state of affairs to Rob 
Lindsay, of course without expectation of his 
drawing any conclusions from the revelation. 


92 Lindsay s Luck. 

u I found Laura crying a little, just now,” 
she said. “ She says she has the headache, 
and is cross, which last statement may be en- 
tirely relied on as being correct. What singu- 
lar creatures we girls are ! I actually never 
knew Laura could lose her temper until lately. 
Since the shooting picnic she has been as 
nicely unangelic as I should wish to see anyone 
— as nicely unangelic as the rest of us. Geof- 
frey Treherne is developing her resources.” 

That night Blanche Charnley was very fully 
satisfied upon the subject of her friend’s re- 
sources having been developed. There was 
more warmth under the fair, tranquil face, it 
appeared, than people generally imagined. I 
think it probable that every woman is spiced 
with a dash of hidden fire, though it may only 
be developed upon rare occasions ; and the fire 
flashed forth brilliantly. She was angry with 
Blanche for revealing her secret irritation, an- 
gry with Robert Lindsay for daring to listen, 
angry with herself for being angry, and, in con- 
sequence, more irritable than ever. 

“ It was ridiculous in you to tell him, 


Lindsay s Luck . 


93 


Blanche/' she said. “And it was insolent, on his 
part, to mention it to me afterward as he did. 
I never disliked any one in my life as I dislike 
that great, absurd giant of an American ; and 
I never saw any one so absurdly presuming, 
and awkward, and tactless, and under-bred.” 
Her little flash of wrath cooled off after this, 
and then, of course, she began to regret her 
vehemence, and felt a little ashamed of herself, 
and after that nothing was more natural and 
girl-like than to be a little low-spirited, and a 
little petulant ; and at last, in the end, to burst 
into a flood of tears, in a fashion most unac- 
countable to every one but herself. 

“I know it is foolish,” she said, “and I 
know you think it is foolish, Blanche, but I am 
so — so miserable.” And it was very evident 
that she was speaking the truth, however ex- 
traordinary such a truth might seem. 

“ Miserable ! ” echoed Blanche. “ Miserable 
with that on your finger, Laura?” And she 
touched the Treherne diamond. 

In this moment of her weakness, Laura for- 
got to be cautious, and forgot that she was 


94 


Lindsay’s Lack. 


talking to a very penetrating young lady. She 
flung out her hand with a petulant gesture. 

“ I hate it ! ” she exclaimed ; and then sud- 
denly recollecting herself, and regretting her 
dreadfully weak candor, she added, “ At least I 
don’t hate it ; but sometimes I almost wish — I 
mean to say, I almost wonder if — if it would 
not have been better to have waited a little.” 

This diminuendo, together with her evident 
confusion, was very expressive. 

“ Ah, I dare say!” said Blanche, consolingly. 
“ I thought so, from the first, Laura ; but it is 
too late now.” 

Yes, it was too late, now, very much too late, 
if the Treherne annals were to be relied upon ; 
and this conviction, perhaps, made Laura Tresh- 
am more impatient than anything else would 
have. Before her engagement she had at least 
liked Geoffrey Treherne a little; but now, be- 
ing bound to him by that unpleasantly signifi- 
cant legend, the tie chafed her sorely, and occa- 
sionally she had felt as though very little would 
turn the tide of her opinion, and make her dis- 
like him intensely. She knew that she was 


Lindsay s Luck. 


95 


never happier for his presence ; she was even 
compelled to acknowledge the secret feeling 
that she was slightly relieved when circum- 
stances interfered with his visits, and her own 
heart told her that she had never so nearly 
hated him as when he had pressed his first 
gracious betrothal kiss upon her shrinking lips. 
She knew pretty girls who were engaged, who 
seemed to be wondrously happy, and whose 
bright eyes were all the brighter and more 
tender for their lover’s gallant speeches. She 
had never blushed under Geoffrey Treherne’s 
most flattering address — she had even felt very 
uneasy under them. But then it was as Blanche 
had said, too late, and she must even bear the 
uncomfortable cross with a good grace, since 
she herself had taken it up. 

And then, after this, there was an unex- 
pected arrival at the Priory, and this arrival 
was no less a person than Lady Laura’s guar- 
dian, Mr. Jernyngham, who bore down upon his 
ward on his way to Scotland, with a charac- 
teristic weight of dignity, which almost over- 
whelmed that young lady. He was making a 


Lindsay s Luck . 


96 

business tour, and his object in calling was to 
state his approval of the engagement, with, of 
course, a slight reservation in behalf of the 
magnificence of Basil deTresham. The match 
was a fitting one in every point of view ; but, 
of course, no honor could be done, and nothing 
could be added to the stately loftiness of the 
house of Tresham, despite the much-to-be-re- 
gretted fact that its sole present representative 
was merely a velvet-eyed young lady, whose 
affairs of the heart were in an unpleasantly 
complicated state. 

Under the heavy pressure of her guardian’s 
presence, Laura felt her courage subsiding 
rapidly. What would he have said had he 
known with what an inward shrinking she re- 
ceived his graciously proffered congratulations 
in their first private interview ? What would 
he have said, had he known what an unlady- 
like impulse directed her, after the interview 
was over, to snub her dignified betrothed upon 
his arrival ? What would he think if he knew 
that the lucky son of a “ person in trade ” car- 
ried her glove in his pocket, and monopolized 


Lindsay s Luck. 97 

her secret thoughts, to the great detriment of 
her affianced ? 

The new arrival patronized Robert Lindsay 
with great majesty, but not at all to the young 
man’s confusion. He was becoming used to 
some degree of patronage, and could bear it 
with the most undiminished cheerfulness. He 
had even told Blanche Charnley that he rather 
liked it, to that young lady’s intense amuse- 
ment. Thus it may be easily seen that the 
struggle going on was a very unequal one. 
Laura Tresham was easily influenced — Robert 
Lindsay scarcely to be influenced at all. Dur- 
ing the two days of her guardian’s stay, her 
fair young ladyship’s patience was tried be- 
yond all bounds. Treherne's eyes were gradu- 
ally opening to a knowledge of the fact that 
his rival was more persevering than he had im- 
agined. Circumstances, too, seemed to favor 
Rob Lindsay wondrously, in the face of his 
first want of success. He found himself una- 
voidably, as it appeared, thrown into Lady 
Laura’s path. Perhaps diplomacy on Blanche’s 
part assisted him. Blanche Charnley was a 


98 Lindsay s Lack. 

thorough feminine plotter, and worked with a 
will. 

“ She shall not marry Geoffrey Treherne if I 
can help it,” she had said, desperately ; “ and 
certainly she won’t if Robert Lindsay can 
help it.” 


Lindsay s Luck. 


99 


CHAPTER VIII. 

BROUGHT TO BAY. 

So she managed to bring about interviews 
that were absolutely unavoidable ; so she for- 
bore to uphold her favorite, but let him uphold 
himself ; so she privately inquired into the facts 
of his kindliness toward the little deformed 
daughter of the under-gardener, and, dropping 
a chance word here and there, aroused Laura’s 
secret sympathy, and that most powerful of 
all feminine feelings, curiosity. 

Then it was that Rob, for the first time, 
began to recognize a faint shadow of sadness 
in the soft, girlish eyes he loved so well, and 
for whose sake he was doing such steadfast 
battle ; and it appealed to his tenderness. A 
man with less hearty strength of purpose would 
have long before abandoned a struggle in which 
the odds seemed so fearfully against him ; but 
Rob Lindsay’s belief in the simple strength of 
faith and endurance was a very powerful one. 
Circumstances had proved to him clearly that 


ioo Lindsay s Luck . 

Laura Tresham’s lover was even a far less suc- 
cessful man than himself in the matter of hav- 
ing won Laura Tresham’s heart. Was he sure 
that he had won Laura Tresham’s heart him- 
self? Well, of late he had even dared some- 
times to think so, and decidedly he was not sure 
that he had not won it, which was really some 
cause for rejoicing. Thus he did not despair. 

But, after her guardian’s visit, Laura was 
rendered desperate. She was not safe after 
all ; she was even more unsafe than she had 
ever been before ; and thus, out of her despera- 
tion, there grew a resolve almost as desperate 
as her first one. She would speak to Mr. 
Lindsay openly ; she would force him to de- 
fend himself ; she would tell him that his ab- 
surd persistence was worse than hopeless, and 
then, if this did not result in his being utterly 
defeated, she would return to London. That 
would end the matter, surely. But she did not 
acknowledge to herself, even in her most secret 
thoughts, that London was her last, her very 
last resource, and that London, even though 
presenting itself as a haven of refuge from 


Lindsay s Luck . 


ioi 


this too courageous lover, loomed up before 
her reluctant mental vision with bitter gloom. 

Northumberland had been so pleasant, she 
said, inwardly ; and it was because Northum- 
berland had been so pleasant that she was so 
unwilling to leave it. But then she must go 
some day, and already she had far outstayed 
the usual term of her summer visits. She 
had been at the Priory nearly three months, 
and, notwithstanding her grievances, the three 
months had seemed terribly short. No oppor- 
tunity for the consummation of her plans pre- 
sented itself to her for several days. But at 
length, one evening, as she came out of her 
room to go down to dinner, the door of Robert 
Lindsay’s room opened behind her, just as it 
had done on the evening of his arrival. On 
the impulse of the moment she spoke to him. 

“ She wished to speak to him alone,” she 
said. “ It was necessary that she should see 
him alone, because, what she was desirous of 
saying to him, could not be said in the pres- 
ence of others.” 

Rob bowed composedly, but, nevertheless, 


102 


Lindsay s Luck . 


with some surprise in his eyes. He would re- 
turn to the dining-room, after dinner, at any 
time that would suit Lady Laura’s plans. 

Lady Laura’s desperation was more intense 
than ever, and the embarrassed pink on her 
cheek burned into rose. Half an hour after 
dinner would do. This was all she had to say, 
and there she left him ; and he discovered that 
he had taken his old stand again, unconsciously, 
and was watching the sweep of her rich dinner- 
dress, just as he had done once before. 

And half an hour after the dinner was over, 
he sauntered back to the dining-room, and 
found her young ladyship awaiting him, and 
pretending to read by the light of the chande- 
lier. But the reading was such a poor little 
pretense, that, in spite of her attempts to pre- 
serve a beautiful unconsciousness of the em- 
barrassment of her position, she colored most 
transparently. 

Rob took his stand complacently. He was 
rather curious to see how the matter would 
end ; but, notwithstanding the faint inkling he 
had of its portent, he was not much discom- 


Lindsay s Luck . 


103 


posed. He was not the man to be discom- 
posed by a pretty girl; and Lady Laura Tresh- 
am had never looked so pretty, so innocent, 
and so girlish, as she did just at the moment 
she closed her book, with the flicker of embar- 
rassed light in her eyes. 

Rob was quite conscious of her embarrass- 
ment, and very conscious indeed of the pretti- 
ness and girlish timidity of manner. Perhaps 
he had never admired Laura Tresham so much 
as he did that instant ; and decidedly he had 
never felt so steady in his determination to do 
honest battle for her sweet sake. 

It was at least five minutes before Lady 
Laura summoned a sufficient amount of cour- 
age to allow of her broaching the subject of 
her grievance, and when the courage was sum- 
moned, and the subject brqached, it was done 
with some slight degree of tameness. She 
scarcely knew what she said as a beginning ; 
but she was quite conscious that it was very 
weakly said, and that her knowledge of her 
weakness burned even her white forehead like 
fire. Altogether her appeal was something 


104 


Lindsay s Luck . 


like a sudden little burst of feeling, half like a 
small denunciation, half like a reluctant re- 
proach ; and it ended by accusing Robert 
Lindsay of being unjust and unkind. 

“You made me appear absurd before,” she 
said, “ and you are making me appear absurd 
again ; worse still, you are forcing me to make 
myself appear absurd.” 

“ In whose eyes?” repeated Rob, just as he 
had done before. “ Don’t say in mine, Lady 

I D 

^aura. 

She scarcely deigned to look at him. By 
the repetition of her grievances she had almost 
managed to make herself angry, and she felt it 
to her advantage to add as much fuel as possi- 
ble to her wrath, lest it might come to a w r eak 
conclusion. 

“It is ridiculous,” she said, again. “You 
know it is, Mr. Lindsay. And if your intention 
was to make me feel wretched and uncomfor- 
table, you have certainly been successful.” 

“ I did not intend to make you uncomfor- 
table,” said Rob. 


“ If — if I were not — engaged,” with a little 


Lindsay s Luck . 


105 


dash at the last word, and a great dash of new 
color, “ you know that you — that I — I mean 
to say — you know you are treating me very 
unjustly, Mr. Lindsay.” 

She stopped here, petulant and excited, and 
waited for his reply without looking at him. 
At this juncture Rob rose from his seat, and, 
slightly to her wonder, took two or three abrupt 
turns across the room. Then he came back, 
and folding his arms on the high back of his 
chair, looked down at her bright, bent head 
and petulant, fair face. 

“ Why, Lady Laura?” he asked. 

Now, this was really trying; and not only 
trying, but confusing. Necessarily the two or 
three abrupt turns across the room had taken 
some short time, and necessarily this lapse of 
time, short as it was, had wholly unprepared 
Lady Laura for this composed inquiry. In 
her surprise and embarrassment she forgot her- 
self, and looked up at him, and thus became 
more confused than ever. 

“I really don’t understand you, Mr. Lind- 
say,” she said. 


io 6 Lindsay s Luck. 

“ Then I can easily make myself understood, 
I suppose, ” answered Rob, cheerfully, “ by 
speaking more plainly. Why is it absurd that 
I should love you ? Why is it absurd that I 
should wish to tell you so ? Why is it absurd 
that I should wish to win you as Geoffrey Tre- 
herne did? That is what I mean.” 

Frank and fearless as he always was, and as 
she had always known him to be, this was more 
than she had expected. She had never thought 
he would dare so far as this, at least, and the 
sudden knowledge that the worst had come to 
the worst, indeed, was such a shock to her that 
she felt powerless, and lost even the atom of 
self-possession of which she might perhaps have 
boasted a few minutes before. And, apart from 
this, having admired him a little in secret, and 
having been so often conquered by his fearless- 
ness in their battles, there was something al- 
most touching in the fact of this fearlessness 
asserting itself so strongly. And since she was 
thus touched for the moment, there was no 
help for her, for, be she as proud as she may, 
when a woman is touched indeed, she is weaker 


Lindsay s Luck. 


107 


than even her worst enemies may fancy. She 
looked up at him once, and faltered ; she looked 
up at him again, and felt his strength ; she 
looked a third time, and acknowledged her 
own weakness, and, remembering nothing but 
this weakness, got up from her chair, hurri- 
edly, and broke down into a pretty, sudden 
appeal that was wonderfully unexpected, even 
to him. 

“ You ought not to say such things to me,” 
she said, desperately. “You must know it is 
wrong, and — and cruel. Ah, Mr. Lindsay, 
why won’t you have pity on me and be reason- 
able ? ” 

From his place behind the chair, upon whose 
high back he leaned, Rob looked down at this 
fair, despairing enchantress, with a great deal 
of serenity of manner. He was not a Geoffrey 
Treherne, and his pride was not of the Treherne 
order, inasmuch as it had more of self-respect, 
and less of self-sufficiency about it. Laura 
Tresham could not overpower him with her 
stately coldness. She had struggled against 
him with her utmost power ; she had called 


io8 Lindsay s Luck. 

him awkward and presuming; she had sneered 
at him when she spoke of him to Blanche 
Charnley ; but she had never daunted him in 
the least, and, in spite of her sneers, she had 
not been able to resist him in the end ; and 
here she was, sitting alone with him, giving him, 
this “ big, underbred American/’ an interview, 
in spite of herself, and feeling fully conscious 
that she was getting the worst of the combat. 

Rob was cheerful, composed, serene, good- 
humored, and with his serenity he baffled her 
once more, and scattered her self-possession 
and her self-possessed plans to the winds. 

“ Reasonable ! ” he echoed, when she had 
finished speaking. “ Am I unreasonable, Lady 
Laura? Is it unreasonable that I should love 
you, and that loving you I should have deter- 
mined to win you, if I might, in spite of the 
world, in spite of Col. Treherne, in spite of 
William the Cona x ueror, who, it appears, has 
stood between me and my man’s right to say 
to you, like an honorable gentleman, ‘ Laura, 
I love you, give me the blessed right to call 
you wife ’ ? ? ’ 


Lindsay s Luck. 


109 


She turned upon him, actually feeling pale, 
notwithstanding her poor little pretense of 
anger. 

“ You are going too far,” she cried, more des- 
perately than ever. “ I cannot listen to you — I 
will not listen to you. I asked you to have pity 
on me, and you have no pity. I will not appeal 
to you again. You are unjust, and unkind, 
and wicked ! ” And she hid her face in her 
hands. 

There was a short silence, not without its 
sting of bitterness to Rob, just the momentary 
sting he had felt so often before — a sting bit- 
ter enough, though it passed away. 

“ Ah, Laura!” he said, at length, sadly, “I 
cannot even ask you to forgive me ; for what 
is there to forgive, and how can I regret that 
I have loved you? You are not Lord Tresh- 
am’s daughter to me — you are only a woman ; 
the woman I love with all my soul, and all my 
strength ; and since I am a man, I have not 
feared your stately pride, for, by my life, if 
love and patient faith can win a woman, I will 
win you yet, in spite of ten William the Con- 


I IO 


Lindsay s Lack. 


querors. If you had loved Geoffrey Treherne, 
or if, without having won your heart, he could 
make you happier than I could, I would lay 
my love at your feet, and leave you here with 
him, and go back to America to-morrow. But 
you do not love him, and, in your secret heart, 
you dread the marriage ; and if I can save you 
from it, I will not give you up. I will not — I 
will not, by my faith.” 

Laura started from her seat again, white with 
wrath and agitation, and the two faced each 
other as they had never done before — their 
sudden mood a new one. 

Rob stood up too, no longer leaning upon 
the chair, but erect, and with his arms folded, 
his careless good-humor overruled by some- 
thing infinitely deeper and more worthy — 
the something innately natural to the man, 

but a something he did not show every 
day. 

“ How dare you ! ” Laura flashed out. “ How 
dare you say I do not love Col. Treherne? 
What right have you to presume to say so ? 
You are insolent, indeed, sir.” 


Lindsay s L2ick . 


1 1 1 


Rob came nearer to her, with a repressed 
fire in his handsome eyes. 

“ Laura ! ” he said, with singular steadiness, 
“say that you love him, and I will leave you 
now.” 

She opened her lips, looked at him, and 
stopped. She thought of Geoffrey Treherne, 
and his half-measured love ; she thought of 
Lady Laura Treherne in the future, and turned 
, paler than before. Rob Lindsay had con- 
quered her again. But her anger and wound- 
ed pride came to her aid, and helped her, and 
she turned away, haughtily. 

“ I shall not say so,” she said. “ I shall not 
reply to a question so insolent. Your pre- 
sumption is unpardonable ! ” And, having said 
this, she swept by, and left him standing in the 
middle of the room alone. 

Then she went to her chamber, and wrote a 
letter to her guardian. 

“ I am going back to London with Mr, 
Jernyngham, when he returns,” she said to 
Blanche, who found her in the middle of it. 


I 12 


Lindsay s Luck. 


“ I must go back, some time, you know, and I 
think I had better go now.” 

Nor could all Blanche’s entreaties change 
her determination. 


Lindsay s Luck . 


1 1 


j 


CHAPTER IX. 

FOR THE TIME BEING. 

It is very probable that, after Lady Laura’s 
departure, despite the muir-fowl and the tact- 
ful good-nature of the Charnleys, Northum- 
berland seemed, for a day or so, a trifle dull to 
Rob Lindsay. There was a sense of lonely 
emptiness, even in the delightful, cozy, old- 
fashioned rooms of the Priory, since the sweet, 
proud face illumined them no longer. And, 
besides this, the autumn having fairly set in, 
had set in, of course, in good old dismal Eng- 
lish fashion, with gray, leaden clouds, and 
drizzling, suicide-suggesting rains, and drop- 
ping, sodden leaves. It was a little disheart- 
ening, too, to hear, in the course of a week, 
that Treherne had run down to London ; and 
it was equally disheartening to guess the cause 
of his visit ; but still Rob Lindsay did not 
quite lose courage. It would not do, however, 
to remain at the Priory very much longer; so, 


Lindsay s Luck. 


1 14 

after a week’s lounging, and reading, and 
grouse-shooting, he decided that he would con- 
tinue his travels, as he had from the first in- 
tended doing ; and, having come to this de- 
cision, he broached his plans to Ralph Charnley. 

“You see,” he said, “I promised myself a 
comfortable, careless, amateur sort of a tour 
through the Old World ; and I am of the opin- 
ion that it would be all the pleasanter for a 
companion. Why can’t you cram your things 
into a valise and come along with me?” 

Ralph was highly pleased. There was noth- 
ing to prevent him doing so, he said. 

“We will go wherever the guide-books tell 
us to go,” said Rob, sagaciously ; “and we will 
stay at each place until we want to go some- 
where else. That’s my mode of travel.” 

“ It’s a first-class one,” answered Ralph, with 
an admiring glance at the strengthful, idle 
figure, stretched full length upon the sofa. 
“ And we might stop in London a day or so, 
on our way.” 

“ So we might,” said Rob, as coolly as though 
the idea had just occurred to him. 


Lindsay s Luck. 


US 

“And we might call upon Jernyngham and 
see Lady Laura. Blanche had a letter from 
her this morning, and it appears that she is 
not very well.” This with great gravity of de- 
meanor, but also with a side-glance, not unlike 
one of Blanche’s, at the good-looking, brown- 
eyed face opposite. 

The brown-eyed face had changed slightly, 
it seemed, for the instant ; a flicker of light 
passed over it, touching the brown eyes with 
tenderness. Ah ! Lady Laura, you were only 
a girl to him — a girl whom he loved, and for 
whom he had a sudden sense of pity, through 
his fancy of the imposing Chancery representa- 
tive and Geoffrey Treherne combining them- 
selves with the brazen weight of Basil de 
Tresham. 

“Laura Tresham is a charming girl,” Ralph 
remarked, casually, as it were ; “ but she has 
made a great mistake, in my opinion.” 

“ Llow?” asked Rob, calmly and reflectively 
surveying the light wreaths of smoke curling 
up from the end of his cigar. 

“ How, indeed ! ” echoed young Charnley. 


Lindsay s Luck . 


1 16 

“ Just as a hundred other women do every day, 
Treherne is a magnificent, gentlemanly idiot.” 

“ Oh ! you mean Treherne, do you?” Rob 
returned, still looking at his cigar wreaths. 
“Well, perhaps I am scarcely qualified to 
judge whether you are right or not, inasmuch 
as ” And here he stopped. 

“ Inasmuch as? ” was Ralph’s quiet sugges- 
tion. 

Rob laughed. 

“ Inasmuch as,” he answered with consid- 
erable candor. 

“Yes; inasmuch as Treherne won where I 
lost — for the time being.” 

Ralph gave him another of the quick glances 
that were so like Blanche’s. 

“ For the time being?” he repeated. 

“ Exactly,” said Rob, good-humoredly. “ ‘ He 
who fights and runs away may live to fight an- 
other day.’ And I did not run away, my dear 
old fellow. I was merely defeated, for the time 
being, as I said before.” 

This was more than Ralph Charnley had ex- 
pected to hear. The fact was, he had been 


Lindsays Luck. uy 

sympathizing with his friend, to some extent, 
in private. 

“ Does that mean you have not given her up 
yet ? ” he asked, surprisedly. 

“ I don’t give anything up easily," said Rob. 
“ I should not give a trifle up easily, and Laura 
Tresham is not a trifle. Yes, that is what it 
means." 

Ralph turned and looked at him from head 
to foot — at his careless, handsome face with 
its hint of hidden strength ; at his careless, 
handsome figure, carelessly expressing just the 
same hint again ; and having taken him in, as 
it were, he shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You look as if you could turn the world,” 
was his comprehensive comment ; “ and though 
you have before you the harder task of turning 
a woman, it suggests itself to me that there is 
not much doubt of your ultimate success.” 

“ Thank you !” said Rob, succinctly. 

A few days later, Lady Laura, sitting at 
one of the iron-balconied windows of the Jer- 
nyngham mansion, was startled by the sight 
of a familiar, well-knit figure, that was being 


1 18 


Lindsay s Luck . 


ushered through the big entrance gates by 
the porter. Naturally she was startled, for 
she had imagined this same well-knit figure 
to be at that moment looking out at the rain 
and mist, from certain windows in Northum- 
berland. 

She rose from her seat hurriedly, feeling not 
a little agitated. She must refuse to see him, 
of course. And then a sudden thought arose 
to her mind : he was going away ! Perhaps he 
was going back to America, and they might 
not meet again ! And he had not been so very 
wrong, after all. And — and — the truth was, 
she could not quite make her mind to dismiss 
this brave, indefatigable suitor without a fare- 
well word. A moment more, and a card was 
handed to her by a servant, who looked at her 
slightly agitated face with something of won- 
der. 

“ Robert Lindsay.” 

She read it two or three times to steady her- 
self. Since it might be a farewell visit, per- 
haps it would be better to see him — at any 
rate, it would be the easier plan. Accordingly, 


Lindsays Luck . 119 

she went into the drawing-room, where Rob 
awaited her arrival. 

His stay was ’not a long one, however. He 
was not going back to America, after all ; and 
her fears on this point relieved, Laura could 
not resist a very conscious remembrance of 
their last interview. It was rather a difficult 
matter to refer to the Charnleys, and the sum- 
mer visit, and still steer clear of the hidden 
quicksands, and, in endeavoring to do so, she 
found herself becoming entangled as usual. She 
was wretchedly uneasy under his presence. She 
had been wretched ever since she had left North- 
umberland. She had been terribly wretched 
under the infliction of Geoffrey Treherne’s 
visits ; and Robert Lindsay’s unexpected ap- 
pearance proved to her, before many minutes 
had passed, that the acme of her wretchedness 
was yet to be reached. It was useless to at- 
tempt to appear at ease. The slow, tell-tale 
fire crept up on her cheeks at his first glance, 
and in his brief stay it deepened and burned 
into a steady flame. He did not refer to the 
past at all during their interview, but when, at 


120 


Lindsay s Luck. 


last, he rose to go, his mood seemed to change, 
and a momentary shadow fell upon him. He 
had tried in vain to rouse her to something 
of freedom and frankness, and his visible fail, 
ure had stung him somewhat. 

“ When I was a boy at school,” he said, “ they 
used to say I was a fortunate fellow, as a rule, 
and Lindsay’s luck was a sort of proverb. But 
it seems to have failed me a little at last. In 
an hour from now, I dare say I shall not feel 
that I am battling against fate; but just now I 
do feel it, strongly. Good-by, Lady Laura.” 
And he held out his hand. 

She took it feeling terribly at a loss for some 
speech, sufficiently cold and inapropos of the 
subject. 

“Will your absence be a long one?” she 
faltered, awkwardly. 

He glanced down at her face, and then at the 
hand he held — the hand with the legendary 
Treherne diamond upon it. 

“ I scarcely know,” he said. “ It seems just 
now, you see, as if I were something like one 
too many ; but, when that feeling wears away, 


Lindsay s Luck . 


1 2 1 


I dare say you will see me again ; and then 
perhaps it will be to hear me say, ‘ Good-by, 
Lady Laura Treherne.’ ” 

She stood behind the heavy curtains of the 
window, and watched him pass out of the en- 
trance-gate just as she had watched him pass 
in, and as the last echo of his footsteps sounded 
upon the wet pavement, she felt an uncom- 
fortable pressure on her throat — that uncom- 
fortable, suffocating throb wet days and ad- 
verse Fate bring to women, now and then, as a 
punishment for their small transgressions ; then 
a hot drop slipped down her cheek and flashed 
upon her hand, very near the Treherne dia- 
mond ; and then another and another, fast and 
heavily. 

“ It is the dull weather,” she said — “ the dull 
weather, and the loneliness and — and every- 
thing. I wish I had never gone up to North- 
umberland. I wish I was a beggar or a servant- 
maid. Ah ! Blanche was right in saying that 
I had better have been anybody than Lady 
Laura T resham.” 


122 


Lindsay's Lack . 


CHAPTER X, 

I don’t know. 

And this was the beginning of a new era of 
stronger dissatisfaction. If she had scarcely 
cared for Geoffrey Treherne before, as the slow, 
heavy winter months lagged by she almost hated 
him. Very naturally, Col. Treherne was be- 
coming impatient. Of course, the engagement 
must be consummated at some time, and, in 
Col. Treherne’s opinion, Lady Laura’s desire 
to delay this consummation was a very extraor- 
dinary one. He discussed the matter with her 
guardian, and that gentleman bore down upon 
his ward with a weight of argumentative elo- 
quence which added to her troubles in no 
inconsiderable manner. London had never 
seemed to her so wearily, heavily dull, and the 
great iron-balconied, iron-grated house so intol- 
erant in its stubborn assertion of itself. That 
slowest and most dignified of carriages, adorned 
with Basil de Tresham’s coat of arms, in bear- 


Lindsay s Luck . 123 

in g its fair freight and her card-case from house 
to house on occasional dismal mornings, might 
figuratively be said to have been driving her, 
not through her round of indispensable morning 
calls, but driving her to desperation. And, 
apart from all other adverse turns of fortune, 
really Lady Laura Tresham was not greatly to 
be envied, after all. With all the gloomy dig- 
nity of Basil de Tresham’s line concentrated in 
her own girlish existence, with no home-ties, 
and few near friends, it is not to be wondered 
at that the bright home-comforts of the Priory 
seemed to her a haven of rest and delight. In 
those days, between her weariness and Geof- 
frey Treherne, she lost spirit and animation, 
and something of the delicate coloring for- 
merly so charming. Now and then Blanche’s 
letters brought tidings of the two travelers. 
Ralph and Mr. Lindsay were in Naples. Ralph 
and Mr. Lindsay had been to Rome, and had 
picked up some pretty oddities, in an anti- 
quary’s shop in some out-of-the-way-place or 
other, and, having picked them up, had sent 
them home as presents. 


124 Lindsay s Luck . 

“ Mamma is more in love with Robert Lind- 
say than ever/’ the young lady wrote. “ He 
has written to her once or twice, in that hon- 
est, hearty, boyish fashion of his, and she 
watches for his letters as anxiously as she does 
for Ralph’s.” 

Now and then, too, there came whimsical 
scraps of news, that were plainly from this life- 
enjoying Rob Lindsay’s pen ; and these Lady 
Laura read oftener than all the rest. She fell 
into a fashion of sitting, with her hands folded 
upon her knee, before the fire, in her rich, 
desolate room, and slipping into sad, fanciful, 
girl-like reveries concerning this same Rob 
Lindsay. How would it have been, if he had 
been Geoffrey Treherne, or if she had not been 
so sternly set under the shadow of De Tresh- 
am’s exclusive greatness? Would she have 
dreaded the letter-reading and the letter-writ- 
ing then ? Would she have felt that dreadful 
impulse to be almost rude in her coldness, when 
she found herself alone with Col. Treherne, 
doomed to sustain with amiability her charac- 
ter of engaged young lady? 


Lindsay s Luck. 125 

She never did more than ask herself these 
questions ; but the time came when she knew 
she could have answered them with little trou- 
ble, and answered them truly, too. 

But at length the time came also, when 
Geoffrey Treherne could be set aside no longer, 
and then her strait was a desperate one indeed. 
He came up to London, and had an interview 
with her guardian, which resulted as might 
have been expected. Through sheer force of 
superior power his point was gained, and the 
day fixed for the wedding. There was a rush 
and bustle of trousseau ordering, a stately, por- 
tentous driving of the stately carriage to jewel- 
ers and milliners ; and then, after each day, 
there came to Laura Tresham, in her lonely, 
handsome chamber, more of the sad fireside 
reveries, and something very much stronger 
than even the old impatience and dread. 

In the letters that went from London to 
Northumberland, it is probable that something 
of the unpleasant truth crept out. Of course, 
Lady Laura did not say to her friend that she 
was a very miserable young lady, and that she 


126 


Lindsay s Luck . 


dreaded the approaching marriage more in- 
tensely every day. Of course she did not say 
that, in defiance of her struggles, her heart was 
following, with the utmost impropriety, the 
gay tourist, who seemed to be enjoying him- 
self so vigorously; and, of course, above all, she 
did not say that, but for the fact that she was 
a very cowardly young lady, she would have 
rid herself of the legendary Treherne diamond 
any day, for this gay tourist’s sake, and have 
been very heartily glad to do so. But, though 
she did not say this, her letters told Blanche 
Charnley that her fair friend was “ lonely,” and 
“ blue,” and “ not very well ; ” that she found 
London insupportable, and had never enjoyed 
anything so much as that summer’s visit. 
More, too, than this, they spoke with such evi- 
dent shrinking of the arrangements made, and 
so slurred over all mention of the bridegroom, 
and so sadly touched, now and then, upon 
“helplessness,” and “friendlessness,” that 
Blanche arched her piquant eyebrows over 
them, and shrugged her piquant shoulders, 
and often ended with a little impatient “pah!” 


Lindsay s Luck. 


127 


But at length an epistle came which broke 
through all restraint in a most unexpected 
manner. It was about three months before 
the day decided upon for the wedding that this 
letter arrived ; and it was most unfeignedly 
tear-blotted, and most unfeignedly wretched 
and despairing in tone. It was plainly a burst 
of appealing desperation, the result of a sudden 
rush of hopeless misery, and it ended by im- 
ploring Blanche to come to London at once. 

Having read it, Blanche did not say “ pah ! ” 
she said, “ Poor Laura ! ” and, after saying it, 
sat down and wrote a reply, announcing her 
intention of complying with the request. Then 
she reopened a letter she had just written to 
the tourists, who for the past three weeks had 
been in Paris, and, after inclosing a short note 
to Robert Lindsay, sent it at once to Guest- 
wick to be mailed. 

Two days after this, a carriage containing 
Miss Charnley and appurtenances drew up be- 
fore the iron entrance-gates of Mr. Jernyng- 
ham’s town establishment ; and the visitor, 
after having been received with state and cere- 


128 Lindsay s Luck . 

mony, was delivered into the hands of her 
friend. 

Not many minutes were required to show 
Blanche Charnley exactly how affairs stood. 
Laura looked pale and harassed. The last two 
months had left their traces upon her so un- 
mistakably, that in the face of her impatience, 
Blanche felt constrained to pity her. But it 
was not until late at night, when, having re- 
tired to their room, they were safe from all 
chance of disturbance, that she brought her 
energies to bear openly upon the matter in 
hand. Then, having settled herself, after her 
usual fashion, for a comfortable “ talk/’ she 
dashed at the subject. 

“ Now, Laura,” she said collectedly, “ be 
good enough to tell me all about it.” 

Thus taken by surprise, Lady Laura found 
her color again, and then, after twisting Geof- 
frey Treherne’s ring around her finger for one 
nervous moment, lost it again, and was dumb. 

“ My dear child,” persisted Blanche, after 
the manner of the most elderly and experi- 
. enced of matrons. “ My dear child, there is 


Lindsay s Luck. 


129 


no earthly use in pretending now, because it is 
very much too late, and we are in far too criti- 
cal a position ; so we may as well be perfectly 
frank and truthful — as frank as Mr. Rob Lind- 
say would be himself, for instance.” 

But Laura, covered with convicted guiltiness, 
did not speak, perhaps in consequence of hav- 
ing most unaccountably found her color once 
more at the last clause of the sentence. 

“ So, as we are to be frank,” Blanche went 
on, “I may as well begin by asking you a few 
frank questions, which you are under obliga- 
tions to reply to frankly, however much they 
may startle you. Will you answer them, 
Laura ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Laura, in the lowest of 
obedient voices. 

“Well,” said her friend, “question first: 
Do you want to marry Geoffrey Treherne?” 

“ N-o ; ” very low indeed. 

Blanche nodded. 

“ I thought not,” she said. “ Miss Laura, 
no weakness, if you please. Question second : 
Do you want to marry Robert Lindsay?” 


130 


Lindsay s Luck. 


A little cowardly catch of Laura's breath, 
and then a decided dead silence. 

“ I will give you three chances, like the chil- 
dren do,” said Blanche. “ There, you weak- 
minded little creature.” (With delightful in- 
consistency, inasmuch as Lady Laura Tresham 
was by no means a little creature.) “ Once ! 
Do you want to marry Robert Lindsay? 
Twice ! Do you want to marry Robert Lind- 
say ? Three times ” 

“I — don’t know!” broke in her victim. 
“ Oh, Blanche, please don’t ! ” 

“ You don’t know?” echoed Blanche, indig- 
nantly. “ Call yourself twenty years old, and 
don’t know your own mind yet ! Yes, you do 
know, and I know, too. You do want to 
marry Robert Lindsay, and you would marry 
him to-morrow, if you were not a miserable 
coward — afraid of Geoffrey Treherne, and 
afraid of Mr. Jernyngham, and afraid of every 
one else who is kind enough to insist that you 
have not a will of your own. Oh, you ridicu- 
lous little simpleton! How you do try my 
patience ! ” 


Lindsay s Luck . 


131 

In this manner, openly convicted of cowar- 
dice and weakness, and all other capital crimes, 
the fair culprit was completely subjugated, and 
very naturally gave way, under the combined 
weight of her misfortunes. 

She was miserable, she said, in the greatest 
depression. She was wretched. She did not 
want to marry Geoffrey Treherne; but — but 
how could she help herself ? She wished she 
had never gone to Northumberland ! 

Altogether the scene, in its thorough girlish- 
ness, was not without its whimsical side. In 
the short pause that followed this declaration, 
Blanche looked into the fire, smiling a little, 
notwithstanding her thoughtfulness. 

“ Laura,” she said, at last, “ I have not yet 
asked question third. When Robert Lindsay 
comes to London — comes here — will you see 
him ? ” 

Laura looked up with a faint start. 

“ When ? ” she faltered. 

“I said when,” answered Blanche. “And I 
meant when. I have written to him, and told 
him to come.” 


132 


Lindsay s Luck . 


CHAPTER XI. 

I WROTE IT — THREE DAYS AGO. 

Certainly Blanche Charnley had her girlish 
hands full during the following week. Per- 
haps no young lady in the world had ever felt 
a greater consciousness of secret guilt than 
that beautiful arrant coward, Lady Laura Tresh- 
am, and this consciousness rendered her, by 
no means, the most animated of companions. 
She was harassed and dejected, and even 
Blanche’s most spirited arguments failed to 
inspire her with anything of courage. Conse- 
quently Blanche waited with some impatience 
for Robert Lindsay’s appearance. She had 
not decided as yet what his appearance would 
bring forth, or what he would do ; but, having 
infinite faith in his powers, she had at least 
decided that he would settle the matter one 
way or the other. 

“If I were in your place,” she said, severely, 
to Laura, when she had arrived at this deci- 


Lindsay s Luck . 


133 


sion, “ I would not wait for any one to settle 
my love affairs for me. I would settle them 
myself. I would write to Geoffrey Treherne, 
and tell him that I wouldn't marry him. I 
should like to know what calamity such a 
course would bring forth. You are not a Cir- 
cassian, I hope, or a Turk, or a Chinese wo- 
man. If you are,” with excessive tartness, “ I 
have not heard of it yet.” 

“ I am not waiting for any one to settle my 
love affairs,” said Laura. “It is too late now,” 
with a little sigh. 

Blanche shrugged her shoulders satirically. 

“Too late!” she began. “Robert Lind- 
* » 

say 

Lady Laura rose from her chair, pale-faced 
and subjugated, and walked to the window. 

“ Don’t, Blanche ! ” she exclaimed. “ Don’t 
talk to me about Robert Lindsay. It is too 
late, and I am miserable enough.” And she 
had scarcely uttered the words, before she 
turned paler still, and started from the win- 
dow, crying out, suddenly, “ Oh, Blanche, there 
he is ! ” 


134 


Lindsay s Luck . 


Blanche flung down her book, and hurried 
to the window, and to her excitement and de- 
light, her first glance fell upon the stalwart 
figure, which had so often been the subject of 
her good-natured admiration — the figure of 
Robert Lindsay in person. 

Laura drew back, excited and nervous. 

“ I — I can’t see him,” she cried. “ I — I really 
can’t ! What shall I do ? ” 

Blanche fired in an instant like some small 
order of domestic fire-work. If she was to de- 
feat Geoffrey Treherne, she must defeat him 
now ; if she was to help this indefatigable ten- 
der-hearted Rob, she must help him now; if 
she was to save Lady Laura from a life of half- 
love and slow disappointment, she must save 
her from it this very instant. 

“ You cannot see him ! ” she exclaimed. “ Say 
you have not the courage to see him, and you 
will be right once ; say you are weak-minded 
enough to be wicked, and you will be right 
again. You have been weak enough to treat 
Geoffrey Treherne shamefully (not that he 
doesn’t deserve it, because he does) ; but you 


Lindsay s Luck. 


135 


have still treated him shamefully, and now you 
are too weak to right him, and right yourself, 
and right the man who loves you, and who is 
worth five hundred thousand Geoffrey Tre- 
hernes. You won’t see him?” with terrible 
calmness. “Very well, don’t see him, and I 
will go back to Northumberland before break- 
fast to-morrow morning, and you can marry 
Geoffrey Treherne, and be wretched for life.” 

Lady Laura put both her hands up to her 
face, and covered it, her cheeks burning, her 
brow burning, the very tips of her ears burn- 
ing ; her heart beating so loudly that she was 
sure the room echoed with it. 

Blanche drew from her trim belt a trim little 
jewel of a watch. 

“ I will give you two minutes to decide,” she 
said, emphatically. “ The footman will be here 
in three, and if, by that time, you have not 
spoken, I shall ring for your maid to pack my 
trunks.” 

The first minute had passed, and the second 
was half gone, when Laura lifted her face, and 
broke the ominous silence. 


136 


Lindsay s Lack. 


“ I — I will see him/’ she faltered. 

Blanche shut her watch with a little click, 
just as the servant opened the door. 

“ Show the gentleman into this room, Mar- 
tin/’ she said ; and, as the man withdrew, she 
turned to Laura. “ I shall stay in the room 
long enough to speak a dozen words to Mr. 
Lindsay, and then I shall go down stairs,” she 
said. “ Laura, you have no need to be afraid 
that you are not ready to meet him. Your 
cheeks are on fire, and you look like an angel. 
There, my dear, be sensible, and think what 
Lady Laura Treherne would be twenty years 
hence.” 

Laura had no time to speak. Her breath 
was fairly taken by this master-stroke of rapid- 
ity and diplomatic movement. The fact was, 
that if she had had time to speak, or even to 
think, she would have been so full of misgiving 
that she would have upset the best-laid plans 
in the universe, and of this Blanche Charnley 
was very well aware. But with the shock of 
Blanche’s sudden indignation, and that last 
stroke concerning Lady Laura Treherne’s fu- 


Lindsay s Luck. 


137 


ture, accumulating at once, she found herself ab- 
solutely free to let things take their own course. 

She did not know how much Blanche had 
written to Robert Lindsay ; she had not even 
dared to guess heretofore ; but when the two 
met, a full recognition of the truth flashed up- 
on her. 

“ I am not going to ask you any question 
now,” said Blanche, after the first greetings 
had been exchanged. “ I am going to leave 
you to say what you have to say to Laura. Mr. 
Lindsay, two weeks ago the young lady told 
me that she was wretched and despairing, and 
guess why ? Because, if she is not saved from 
it, in less than three months from now she is 
to marry Geoffrey Treherne. Once you told 
me that if you could save her from it, you 
would ; and so, as there was no time to lose, I 
sent for you. Save her if you can.” 

Lady Laura did not look at her visitor when 
Blanche’s exit left them alone. She dared not 
even glance up, but waited in silence, her burn- 
ing blushes almost stinging her delicate skin. 
She was thinking that this was worse than all 


Lindsay s Luck . 


138 

the rest. Rob Lindsay was thinking that this 
was his last chance, and that there would be a 
hard struggle, before he would let it slip away 
from him, and be lost. 

“ You see that I have come back again, Lady 
Laura,” were his first words. “And I think 
there is no need of telling you why I came.” 

“ Excuse my saying so — ” she said, trying to 
appear cold, and quite conscious that she ap- 
peared nervous ; “ but I really don’t know 
why, Mr. Lindsay.” 

“ Then I suppose I must even tell you again,” 
Rob replied, quietly. “The reason is an old 
one, Lady Laura, and one I have given more 
than once before. It is a simple one, too. I 
came back because I love you.” 

She was conscious of a sudden throb of the 
smoothly-beating heart Geoffrey Treherne’s 
warmest words had never had the power to 
stir. She was conscious, too, of a quicker 
pulse-beating, and an exultant thrill ruling her 
in spite of her confusion. He had not given 
her up after all. He loved her yet. 

“ Do you understand me ? ” he said again. 


Lindsay s Luck. 


139 


“ I think you do, and I will tell you something 
else, Lady Laura. I think if Col. Treherne 
were here, he would understand too, for he is 
an honorable man, at least ; and I think some- 
times the worst of men are more merciful than 
the best of women. I told you I loved you 
when we were in Northumberland, and I said I 
would not give you up ; and I have not given 
you up — yet.” 

There was a slight pause before the last word, 
and a slight stress upon it, when it was uttered, 
which made Laura T resham’s heart beat hard. 

She could see there was more steadiness in 
his manner than there had ever been before, 
and she fancied there was more bitterness, 
for, though he had not wholly flung aside his 
good-humored audacity, he stood before her 
a man who felt that to some extent he had 
been wronged, and who was now throwing his 
last stake. 

“ But I have not come back to ask you to 
pity me,” he went on. “ Perhaps sentiment is 
not my forte; at any rate, it seems that I am 
always at a loss for fair speeches. I have 


140 Lindsay s Luck . 

not come to say that my heart will be broken, 
if, three months hence, Laura Tresham is lost 
to me forever in Lady Laura Treherne. Hearts 
are not easily broken in the nineteenth century. 
I will not even say my life would be blighted ; 
but this I will say, Lady Laura Tresham, sim- 
ply and honestly, I have loved you — I do love 
you ; and the true woman who hears such 
words from the lips of a gentleman, will under- 
stand, simply and honestly, all that they mean. 
The last time,” he went on, “that we were 
alone together at the Priory, I said to you that 
if you would tell me that you loved Geoffrey 
Treherne, I would leave you at once. You 
dared not tell me so, and yet Geoffrey Tre- 
herne’s ring is on your finger now, and you are 
almost his wife. Is that quite fair to Col. Tre- 
herne, Lady Laura? Asking pardon for the 
apparent irrelevance of the remark, is it exactly 
what Basil de Tresham (whose patrician blood 
is supposed to be as honorable as it is blue) 
would be likely to countenance ? ” 

“ I wish Basil de Tresham ” Lady Laura 

was beginning, disrespectfully, when she rec- 


Lindsay s Luck . 


141 

ollected herself, and stopped. In her despera- 
tion she had almost been sacrilegious. 

“ If you were going to say that you wished 
Basil de Tresham had never been born,” said 
Rob, sagaciously, “ I am compelled to say that 
my wishes coincide with yours most heartily. 
I am inclined to think that, perhaps, it would 
have been as well. Ah, Laura ! but for Basil 
de Tresham my love would not have been au- 
dacity, and Geoffrey Treherne’s success his 
birthright.” 

But the next moment his mood changed. She 
was only a girl, and she had made a mistake, 
and her rashness had brought to her its own 
retributive pangs, and the reproach in his tone 
forced them to reveal themselves. Rob forgot 
his satire and his bitterness. He crossed the 
hearth, and stood before her an instant, the 
full strength of a man’s chivalrous love warming 
him, and stirring him to his heart’s core. 

“ Lady Laura,” he said, “ there are tears in 
your eyes ; ” and then in a breath’s space he 
was down upon one knee by her chair, with his 
arm around her waist. 


142 


Lindsay s Luck. 


“ Laura,’’ he said, “ I will not lose you. If I 
have seemed bitter and careless, it was because 
I have suffered. I cannot lose you, I say again. 
I love you, and I will not let you go. It is 
not too late yet. I do not ask you to say that 
you love me. I only ask you to give the Tre- 
herne diamond back to its owner, and free 
yourself from this miserable engagement. I 
can wait for the rest. I will wait for the rest, 
patiently, until you choose to say to me that 
my probation is ended.” 

There were tears in her eyes — tears heavy 
and large, and, before he had finished speaking, 
they were dropping fast. Laura Tresham had 
not been made for a heroine ; and her inten- 
tion to immolate herself upon the altar of her 
ancestral greatness had resulted in too much of 
real martyrdom. It had not been easy, at 
first, to determine to give up this earnest, un- 
tiring lover for Geoffrey Treherne ; but now it 
would cost her a struggle too great to be borne. 
Her own natural weakness was quite as much 
in favor of the earnestness and untiring zeal 
as if she had been fortunate enough to be a 


Lindsay s Luck . 


143 


young lady of far less patrician antecedents. 
With her trouble and excitement, and with 
Rob Lindsay’s strong, persuasive arm around 
her waist, dignity, even self-control, was out of 
the question ; and so she dropped her beauti- 
ful face upon his shoulder. 

“ But — it — it is too late,” she faltered, tremb- 
ling like a lovely coward as she was. “ Oh, 
Robert (with a little catch of the breath at her 
own temerity), what could I say — to Col. Tre- 
herne ? ” 

“Say?” echoed Rob, in a glow of enthusi- 
astic fire. “ Say to him what I should wish a 
woman to say to me, if she had bound herself 
to me rashly. Say to him, 4 1 have done you a 
wrong ; and, by marrying you, I should make 
it a crime. I do not love you, and time has 
proved to me that I was mistaken in fancying 
that I could ; and I appeal to you, as an hon- 
orable gentleman, to release me from my prom- 
ise.’ It might not be easy to say, Laura; but, 
by saying it, you could save yourself from dis- 
honor and wretchedness.” 

It is unnecessary to record all the circum- 


144 Lindsay s Luck . 

stances connected with the remainder of the 
interview. Suffice it to say that, having love 
and tears and vanquished pride all on his side, 
Robert Lindsay gained the victory which was 
to bring to a conclusion his daring campaign, 
and that, upon his departure, Lady Laura had 
gained courage almost marvelously. 

She went up stairs to Blanche Charnley all 
a-bloom with blush roses. Blanche had been 
awaiting her return with some impatience and 
a little fear, notwithstanding her faith in Rob ; 
but, when she saw her, she experienced an im- 
mediate sense of relief. 

“Well,” she said, “does Mr. Lindsay leave 
England ? ” 

Lady Laura slipped into a chair, with a soft, 
expressive little sigh, and an equally expressive 
little deprecating smile. 

“No — ” she hesitated. “At least, I don’t 
think so. I — am going to write a letter to Col. 
Treherne.” 

“ Then you had better write it at once,” ad- 
vised Blanche, “ before your courage oozes out 
of your finger ends, as usual, my dear.” 


Lindsay s Luck. 


145 


“ It — is written already,” confessed her young 
ladyship, with considerable confusion of man- 
ner. “ I — the fact is, Blanche, I wrote it two 
or three days ago ; but — you see I was — I did 
not like to seal it — then.” 

Blanche sprang up from her chair, her amuse- 
ment and exultation getting the better of her, 
at this guilelessly significant acknowledgment. 

“ Oh, ye daughters of men ! ” she exclaimed, 
laughing until the tears started to her eyes. 
“ Oh, fairest and most courageous of the de- 
scendants of De Tresham ! and you did not 
know whether you wanted to marry Robert 
Lindsay or not ! ” 

“ I have not said that I want to marry him, 
yet,” said her ladyship, blushing more than 
ever. “ He — has not even asked me if I 
would.” 

“ Of course not,” said Blanche. “ And of 
course he does not know what you would say, 
if he did. Oh, Laura, Laura! and you wrote it 
two or three days ago ! ” 


146 


Lindsay' s Luck . 


CHAPTER XII. 

AND LAURA HELD OUT HER HAND. 

To attempt to describe Col. Treherne’s as- 
tonishment, when he fully comprehended the 
turn affairs had taken, would be to openly dis- 
play a weakness. It would not have been like 
Geoffrey Treherne to expect effusion ; and so, 
in the earlier stages of the engagement, to his 
limited mental vision, the coldness and brevity 
of the letters of his affianced had simply im- 
plied a becoming dignity and reserve ; and thus, 
as he had placidly read them in Northumber- 
land, he had been placidly unconscious of how 
fate was working against him in London. But 
there was a limit to even Geoffrey Treherne’s 
shortsightedness ; and as the epistles became 
shorter and more significantly cold, he had 
gradually awakened to some slight sense of 
doubt ; but still he had not dreamed of such a 
finale to his dignified love-story as this. To be 
worsted in such a combat, at such a time, was 


L in d say ’ L uck. 


147 


bad enough ; but to be worsted as he guessed 
he had been, was a terrible blow to his arro- 
gant pride. 

Summoned by Lady Laura’s letter, Geof- 
frey Treherne came to London at once; and 
then, but for Blanche’s presence and encour- 
agement, Laura’s position, between her guard- 
ian’s indignation and her ex-lover’s some- 
what haughty displeasure, would have com- 
pletely overwhelmed her. As it was, it was 
by no means a pleasant one, and the termina- 
tion of the interview between the three tried 
all her resolution ; but in the end, of course, 
the majority on the side of love carried the 
day ; and, for perhaps the first time in her 
wardship, the young lady withstood the op- 
posing power of her guardian’s eloquence. To 
that stately and somewhat pompous individual 
his ward’s unexpected firmness was almost as 
astounding as her unprecedented offense. He 
could not understand it, and was forced to re- 
tire from the scene a vanquished potentate, and 
let Treherne go back to Northumberland with 
the legendary diamond in his portmanteau. 


148 


Lindsay s Luck. 


And then, very naturally, as a consequence 
of the excitement, after the interview was 
brought to a close, Laura’s spirits flagged 
again, and she was a very dejected young lady 
indeed. She could not see Robert Lindsay 
now — she was not sure that she wanted to see 
him at all, at first ; but, on finding that, for 
several days, Robert Lindsay did not trouble 
her, her opinions began gradually to change. 
The fact was, that Robert Lindsay was a saga- 
cious young man, and his experience had 
taught him exactly what the result of Tre- 
herne’s visit would be ; so, for a day or so, he 
confined himself to occasional evening strolls 
past the iron-balconied mansion ; and it was 
not until the end of the week that he entered 
the iron gates. 

The footman, who opened the door, knew 
him as a friend of Miss Charnley's ; and when 
Rob informed him, coolly, that there was no 
necessity of his being announced, adding the 
pardonable fiction that he was expected, he 
handed him, without further ceremony, into the 
room where the two young ladies were sitting. 


Lindsay's Luck. 


149 


Blanche greeted him delightedly. She was 
tired of waiting for a finale, and was getting 
out of patience. She had been expecting him, 
too, and Laura had not ; consequently, Laura 
rose to meet him, flushing and paling like the 
loveliest of grown-up children. 

Before half an hour had passed, Blanche dis- 
creetly retired to the window with her work, 
and, taking a seat behind the curtains, counted 
her stitches as though her life depended upon 
the completion of every rose-bud she worked. 

Lady Laura stood upon the hearth-rug in 
silence, her eyes fixed upon the fire, and, for a 
few moments after Blanche’s discreet move, 
there was slight lull in the conversation. 

To Rob, Lady Laura Tresham had never 
seemed less Lady Laura Tresham, and more 
the woman he loved, than she did then. The 
blaze of the fire, dancing upon the white hand 
hanging idly by her side, showed it the fairest 
of hands, its smooth, round wrist set in a ruffle 
of web-like lace, but showed no Treherne dia- 
mond on the slim forefinger ; and so, not being 
the man to brook delay, he went to her side 


150 Lindsay s Luck. 

and took it, this passive white hand, in 
his. 

“ So long as you wore Treherne’s ring,” he 
said, tenderly, “ I only said I loved you, asking 
for nothing; but, since I knew that you no 
longer wore it, I have only waited what I 
thought would be your pleasure, to come to 
you, to speak once again. Laura, you know 
what I am asking for?” 

But Laura, fair traitress, said nothing. 

But Rob was a frank wooer, and cared little 
for her silence, since he knew what a sweet 
truth it told ; and he slipped his strong arm 
about her slender waist, and drew her to his 
side, and kissed her, as Geoffrey Treherne 
would never have done, if he had loved her a 
thousand years. 

“ I said I would wait patiently,” he said, 
kissing her hand, too, and then holding it to 
his breast as he spoke ; “ and so I have waited, 
Laura, nearly six days. And six days are six 
ages to a lover — a lover like me, dearest. And 
now I have come to you ; and as I hold you in 
my arms, though you have not spoken a word 


Lindsay s Luck . 


151 

to me, I can read in your sweet face that. I am 
not to be wretched ; and, before Heaven, my 
darling, I am a happy man.” 

But Laura, fair hypocrite, said nothing. 

“ See ! ” he said, drawing a little case from 
his pocket, and taking from it a sparkling, 
flashing, ring sapphire set. “ See, Laura, no 
Norman brought this, to be handed down, 
with its legend, through generations of noble 
brides ; no barons have worn it, and no kings 
have praised it; but I, Rob Lindsay, who love 
you with my whole soul and my whole strength, 
and will love you through life and death, with 
a gentleman’s faith and reverence, ask you to 
answer my appeal by letting me place it upon 
your hand, and, by wearing it there, until you 
give me the right to claim you for my wife.” 
And Laura held out her hand. 

Rob put it on, and then caught her in both 
his strong arms, and kissed her again and again, 
until her blushes had almost dried her tears; 
and between tears and blushes she was faiier 
and fresher than even 


152 


Lindsay s Luck . 


Then, with his arm still round her waist, 
Rob took her to Blanche’s window. 

“Tell her, Laura, my dear! ” he said, with a 
touch of his old, cheerful audacity. 

Lady Laura laid the hand wearing the sap- 
phire ring upon Blanche’s shoulder. 

“ Blanche, dear,” she said, with her most 
guilty, and, at the same time, most lovely hesi- 
tation, “ I am — engaged to Mr. Lindsay.” 

Blanche rose with a little, happy, ghost of a 
laugh ; and then, of course, girl-like, broke off 
with a little, happy, ghost of a sob ; and then, 
taking refuge in the fair face, kissed it to the 
full as heartily as Rob had done. 

“You see, Laura,” she said to her friend that 
night, when they were alone, being determined 
to give her a sage moral lesson, “you see, my 
dear, how exactly we grown-up children are 
like the children in story-books, and how much 
happier we are when we have been honest, and 
told the truth. Just imagine how wretched 
you would have been if you had not told the 
truth to Geoffrey Treherne and Robert Lind- 
say. 


i53 


Lindsay s Luck . 

Very deeply struck by this philosophical ap- 
plication of a popular and much-preached con- 
clusion, Lady Laura glanced down at her sap- 
phire ring, which was sparkling beautifully in 
the firelight, and drew a soft little sigh. 

“Yes, dear,” she said. 

“And,” began Blanche again, “now, con- 
fess, Laura, now that the trouble is over, are 
you not just as glad as the story-book children 
are when they have spoken the truth, and have 
just found out how dreadfully they would have 
been punished if they hadn’t ? ” 

And the answer was another 

“ Yes, dear.” 

The world frequently hears it said that Lady 
Laura Lindsay is one of the happiest and most 
beautiful young matrons in the shire in which 
her husband has settled down, and bought an 
estate. People say, too, that Mr. Lindsay is 
one of the most popular of men. The country 
gentry, whose pedigrees date back through cen- 
turies of nobility and grandeur, respect and ad- 
mire him. He is popular because he is gener- 
ous, daring, and thoroughbred. He leads men 


1 54 Lindsay s Luck . 

whose rank might entitle them to lead him ; 
and these men are his best and nearest 
friends. There is astonishing luck, they say, 
in this man, who has gained everything that 
fair fortune could bestow. 

But Lady Laura, in whose wifely eyes he is, 
of course, a nineteenth century hero, says that 
her husband’s luck is simply her husband’s 
generosity, kindness, and courage. 


MISS CRESPIGNY 


i LIBRARY of CONGRESS] 
Two Copies Received 

ih\i 25 190 ? 

_ Copyright Entry 

Qa~,.t5 ' *7 

/CLASS CH. XXc,, No. 

/ &(, f tO 

COPY B. 


Miss Crespigny. 


CHAPTER I. 

L I S B E T H. 

“ ANOTHER party ? ” said Mrs. Despard. 

“ Oh yes ! ” said Lisbeth. “ And, of course, 
a little music, and then a little supper, and a 
little dancing, and all that sort of thing.” And 
she frowned impatiently. 

Mrs. Despard looked at her in some dis- 
pleasure. 

“ You are in one of your humors, again, Lis- 
beth, ” she said, sharply. 

“Why shouldn’t I be?” answered Miss 
Crespigny, not a whit awed by her patroness. 
“ People’s humors are their privileges. I would 
not help mine if I could. I like them because 
they are my own private property, and no one 
else can claim them.” 

“ I should hardly think any one would want 
to claim yours,” said Mrs. Despard, dryly, but 


158 Miss Crespigny . 

at the same time regarding the girl with a sort 
of curiosity. 

Lisbeth Crespigny shrugged her shoulders — 
those expressive shoulders of hers. A “ pecu- 
liar girl,” even the mildest of people called 
her, and as to her enemies, what did they not 
say of her ? And her enemies were not in the 
minority. But “ peculiar ” was not an unnatu- 
ral term to apply to her. She was “ peculiar.” 
Seeing her kneeling close before the fender this 
winter evening, one’s first thought would have 
been that she stood apart from other girls. Her 
very type was her own, and no one had ever 
been heard to say of any other woman, “ she is 
like Lisbeth Crespigny.” She was rather small 
of figure, she had magnificent hair ; her black 
brows and lashes were a wonder of beauty ; 
her eyes were dark, mysterious, supercilious. 
She often frightened people. She frightened 
modest people with her nerve and coolness, 
bold people with her savage sarcasms, quiet 
people with her moods. She had alarmed Mrs. 
Despard, occasionally, when she had first come 
to live with her ; but after three years, Mrs. 
Despard, who was strong of nerve herself, had 
become used to her caprices, though she had 
not got over being curious and interested in 
spite of herself. 


Miss Crespigny. 


*59 


She was a widow, this Mrs. Despard. She 
had been an ambitious nobody in her youth, 
and having had the luck to marry a reasonably 
rich man, her ambition had increased with her 
good fortune. She was keen, like Lisbeth, 
quick-witted and restless. She had no children, 
no cares, and thus having no particular ob- 
ject in life, formed one for herself in making 
herself pleasingly conspicuous in society. 

It was her whim to be conspicuous; not in a 
vulgar way, however ; she was far too clever 
for that. She wished to have a little social 
court of her own, and to reign supreme in it. 
It was not rich people she wanted at her enter- 
tainments, nor powerful people ; it was talented 
people — people, shall it be said, who would ad- 
mire her aesthetic soirees , and talk about her a 
little afterward, and feel the distinction of be- 
ing invited to her house. And it was because 
Lisbeth Crespigny was “ peculiar ” that she had 
picked her up. 

During a summer visit to a quaint, pictur- 
esque village on the Welsh coast, she had 
made the acquaintance of the owners of a 
cottage, whose picturesqueness had taken her 
fancy. Three elderly maiden ladies were the 
Misses Tregarthyn, and Lisbeth was their 
niece, and the apple of each gentle spinster’s 


i6o 


Miss Crespigny. 


eye. “ Poor, dear Philip's daughter,” and 
poor, dear Philip, who had been their half-bro- 
ther, and the idol of their house, had gone 
abroad, and “ seen the world,” and, after mar- 
rying a French girl, who died young, had died 
himself, and left Lisbeth to them as a legacy. 
And then they had transferred their adoration 
and allegiance to Lisbeth, and Lisbeth, as her 
manner was, had accepted it as her right, and 
taken it rather coolly. Mrs. Despard had found 
her, at seventeen years old, a restless, lawless, 
ambitious young woman, a young woman when 
any other girl would have been almost a child. 
She found her shrewd, well-read, daring, and 
indifferent to audacity; tired of the pictur- 
esque little village, secretly a trifle tired of be- 
ing idolized by the three spinsters, inwardly 
longing for the chance to try her mettle in the 
great world. Then, too, she had another rea- 
son for wanting to escape from the tame old 
life. In the dearth of excitement, she had been 
guilty of the weakness of drifting into what she 
now called an “ absurd ” flirtation, which had 
actually ended in an equally absurd engage- 
ment, and of which she now, not absurdly, as 
she thought, was tired. 

“ I scarcely know how it happened,” she 
said, with cool scorn, to Mrs. Despard, when 


Miss Crespigny . 


161 


they knew each other well enough to be confi- 
dential. “ It was my fault, I suppose. If I 
had let him alone, he would have let me alone. 
I think I am possessed of a sort of devil, some- 
times, when I have nothing to do. And he is 
such a boy,” with a shrug, “ though he is ac- 
tually twenty-three. And then my aunts knew 
his mother when she was a girl. And so when 
he came to Pen’yllan, he must come here and 
stay with them, and they must encourage him 
to admire me. And I should like to know 
what woman is going to stand that.” (“Wo- 
man, indeed! ” thought Mrs. Despard.) “And 
then, of course, he has some sense of his own, 
or at least he has what will be sense some day. 
And he began to be rather entertaining after a 
while ; and we boated, and walked, and talked, 
and read, and at last I was actually such a lit- 
tle fool as to let it end in a sort of promise, for 
which I was sorry the minute it was half made. 
If he had kept it to himself, it would not have 
been so bad ; but, of course, being such a boy- 
ish animal, he must confide in Aunt Millicent, 
and Aunt Millicent must tell the others ; and 
then they must all gush, and cry, and kiss me, 
as if everything was settled, and I was to be 
married in ten minutes, and bid them all an 
everlasting farewell in fifteen. So I began to 


Miss Crespigny. 


1 62 

snub him that instant, and have snubbed him 
ever since, in hopes he would get as tired of 
me as I am of him. But he won’t. He does 
nothing but talk rubbish, and say he will bear 
it for my sake. And the fact is, I am begin- 
ning to hate him ; and it serves me right.” 

She had always interested Mrs. Despard, but 
she interested her more than ever after this ex- 
planation. She positively fascinated her ; and 
the end of it all was, that when the lady left 
Pen’yllan, she carried Lisbeth with her. The 
Misses Tregarthyn wept, and appealed, and 
only gave in, under protest, at last, because 
Lisbeth was stronger than the whole trio. She 
wanted to see the world, she said. Mrs. Des- 
pard was fond of her. She had money enough 
to make her so far independent, that she could 
return when the whim seized her; and she was 
tired of Pen’yllan. So, why should she not 
go? She might only stay a month, or a week, 
but, however that was, she had made up her 
mind to see life. While the four fought their 
battle out, Mrs. Despard looked on and smiled. 
She knew Lisbeth would win, and of course 
Lisbeth did. She packed her trunk, and went 
her way. But the night before her departure 
she had an interview with poor Hector An- 
struthers, who came to the garden to speak to 


Miss Crespigny . 163 

her, his boyish face pale and haggard, his sea- 
blue eyes wild and hollow with despair ; and, 
like the selfish, heartless, cool little wretch 
that she was, she put an end to his pleadings 
peremptorily. 

“ No ! ” she said. “ I would rather you would 
not write to me. I want to be let alone; and 
it is because I want to be let alone that I am 
going away from Pen’yllan. I never promised 
one of the things you are always insisting that 
I promised. You may call me as many hard 
names as you like, but you can’t deny that ” 

“ No ! ” burst forth the poor lad, in a frenzy. 
“You did not promise, but you let me under- 
stand ” 

“Understand!” echoed his young tyrant. 
“ I tried hard enough to make you understand 
that I wanted to be let alone. If you had 
been in your right senses, you might have seen 
what I meant. You have driven me almost out 
of my mind, and you must take the conse- 
quences.” And then she turned away and left 
him, stunned and helpless, standing, watching 
her as she trailed over the grass between the 
lines of rose-bushes, the moonlight falling on 
her white dress and the little light-blue scarf 
she had thrown over her long, loose, dusky 
hair. 


164 


Miss Crespigny . 


Three years ago all this had happened, and 
she was with Mrs. Despard still, though of 
course she had visited Pen’yllan occasionally. 
She had not tired her patroness, if patroness 
she could be called. She was not the sort of 
girl to tire people of their fancy for her. She 
was too clever, too cool, too well-poised. She 
interested Mrs. Despard as much to-day as she 
had done in the first week of their acquaint- 
ance. She was just as much of a study for 
her, even in her most vexatious moods. 

“ Have you a headache ?” asked Mrs. Des- 
pard, after a while. 

“ No,” answered Lisbeth. 

“ Have you had bad news from Pen’yllan ? ” 

Lisbeth looked up, and answered Mrs. Des- 
pard, with a sharp curiousness. 

“ How did you know I had heard from 
Pen’yllan?” she demanded. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mrs. Despard, “ I guessed so, 
from the fact that you seemed to have no other 
reason for being out of humor ; and lately that 
has always been a sufficient one.” 

“ I cannot see why it should be,” said Lis- 
beth, tartly. “ What can Pen’yllan have to do 
with my humor ? ” 

“ But you have had a letter?” said Mrs. 
Despard. 


Miss Crespigny . 


165 


“ Yes ; from Aunt Clarissa. There is no bad 
news in it, however. Indeed, no news at all. 
How did I ever exist there?” her small face 
lowering. 

“You would not like to go back?” suggested 
Mrs. Despard. 

Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Would you like me to go back?” she ques- 
tioned. 

“I?” in some impatience. “ You know, as 
well as I do, that I cannot do without you. 
You would never miss me, Lisbeth, as I should 
miss you. It is not your way to attach your- 
self to people.” 

“ How do you know?” interposed Lisbeth. 
“ What can you know about me ? What can 
any one man or woman know of another? 
That is nonsense.” 

“ It is the truth, nevertheless,” was the re- 
ply. “ Whom were you ever fond of? Were 
you fond of the Misses Tregarthyn, who adored 
you ? W ere you fond of that poor boy, who 
was so madly in love with you? Have you 
been fond of any of the men who made sim- 
pletons of themselves, because you had fine 
eyes, and a soft voice, and knew, better than 
any other woman in the world, how to manage 
them? No; you know you have not.” 


Miss Crespigny . 


1 66 

Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders again. 

“Well, then, it is my way, I suppose,” she 
commented; “and my ways are like my hu- 
mors, as you call them. So, we may as well 
let them rest.” 

There was a pause after this ; then Lisbeth 
rose, and going to the table, began to gather 
together the parcels she had left there when 
she returned from her shopping expedition. 

“ You have not seen the dress? ” she said. 

“No.” 

“ It is a work of art. The pansies are as 
real as any that ever bloomed. They might 
have been just gathered. How well that wo- 
man understands her business ! ” 


Miss Crespigny . 



CHAPTER II. 


ANOTHER GENTLEMAN OF THE SAME NAME. 


She went up stairs, after this, to her own 
room, a comfortable, luxurious little place, near 
Mrs. Despard’s own apartment. A clear, bright 
fire burned in the grate, and her special sleepy- 
hollow chair was drawn before it ; and when 
she had laid aside her hat, and disposed of her 
purchases, she came to this chair, and seated 
herself in it. Then she drew the Pen’yllan 
letter from her pocket, and laid it on her lap, 
and left it there, while she folded her hands, 
and leaned back, looking at the fire dreamily, 
and thinking to herself. 

The truth is, that letter, that gentle, sweet- 
tempered, old-fashioned letter of Miss Clarissa’s, 
stung the girl, worldly and selfish as she was. 
Three years ago she would not have cared 
much, but “ seeing the world” — ah ! the world 
had taught her a lesson. She had seen a great 
deal of this world, under Mrs. Despard’s guid- 
ance. She had ripened marvelously ; she had 
grown half a score of years older ; she had 
learned to be bitter and clear-sighted ; and now 


1 68 Miss Crespigny . 

a curious mental process was going on with 
her. 

“ We shall never cease to feel your absence, 
my dear,” wrote Miss Tregarthyn. “ Indeed, 
we sometimes say to each other, that we feel it 
more every day ; but, at the same time, we 
cannot help seeing that our life is not the life 
one so young and attractive ought to live. It 
was not a congenial life for our poor dear old 
Philip, and how could it seem congenial to his 
daughter? And if, by a little sacrifice, we can 
make our dear Lisbeth happy, ought we not 
to be more than willing to submit to it ? We 
are so proud of you, my dear, and it delights 
us so to hear that you are enjoying yourself, 
and being so much admired, that when we re- 
ceive your letters, we forget everything else. 
Do you think you can spare us a week in the 
summer? If you can, you know how it will 
rejoice us to see you, even for that short time,” 
etc., etc., through half a dozen pages. 

And this letter now lay on Lisbeth’s lap, as 
we have said, while she pondered over the con- 
tents moodily. 

“ I do not see,” she said, at last, “ I do not 
see what there is in me for people to be so 
fond of.” 

A loosened coil of her hair hung over her 


Miss Crespigny. 


169 


shoulder and bosom, and she took this soft and 
thick black tress, and began to twist it round 
and round her slender mite of a wrist with a 
sort of vindictive force. “ Where is the fasci- 
nation in me?” she demanded, of the fire, one 
might have thought. “ It is not for my amia- 
bility, it is not for my 4 odd fine eyes, and 
odd soft voice,’ as Mrs. Despard puts it, that 
those three women love me, and lay them- 
selves under my feet. If they were men,” with 
scorn, “ one could understand it. But women ! 
Is it because they are so much better than I 
am, that they cannot help loving something — 
even me? Yes it is!” defiantly. “Yes it 
is ! 

She was angry, and all her anger was against 
herself, or at least against the fate which had 
made her what she was. Lisbeth knew herself 
better than other people knew her. It was a 
fate, she told herself. She had been born cold- 
blooded and immovable, and it was not to be 
helped. But she never defended herself thus, 
when others accused her ; she would have 
scorned to do it. It was only against her own 
secret, restless, inner accusations that she 
deigned to defend herself. It was character- 
istic of her that she should brave the opinions 
of others, and feel rebellious under her own. 


Miss Crespigny . 


170 

What Lisbeth Crespigny thought in secret of 
Lisbeth Crespigny must have its weight. 

At last she remembered the dress lying upon 
the bed — the dress Lecomte had just sent 
home. She was passionately fond of dress, es- 
pecially fond of a certain striking, yet artistic 
style of setting, for her own unusually effective 
face and figure. She turned now to this new 
dress, as a refuge from herself. 

“ I may as well put it on now,” she said. 
“ It is seven o’clock, and it is as well to give 
one’s self plenty of time.” 

So she got up, and began her toilet leisurely. 
She found it by no means unpleasant to watch 
herself grow out of chrysalis form. She even 
found a keen pleasure in standing in the bril- 
liant light before the mirror, working patiently 
at the soft, cloud-like masses of her hair, un- 
til she had wound and twisted it into some 
novel, graceful fancifulness. And yet even this 
scarcely arose from a vanity such as the vanity 
of other women. 

She went down to the drawing-room, when 
she was dressed. She knew she was looking 
her best, without being told. The pale gray 
tissue, pale as a gray sea-mist, the golden- 
hearted, purple pansies with which it was 
lightly sown, and which were in her hair, and 


Miss Crespigny . 


171 


on her bosom, and in her hands, suited her en- 
tirely. Her eyes, too, soft, dense, mysterious 
under their sweeping, straight black lashes — 
well, Lisbeth Crespigny’s eyes, and no other 
creature’s. 

“ A first glance would tell me who had de- 
signed that dress,” said Mrs. Despard. “ It is 
not Lecomte ; it is your very self, in every 
touch and tint.” 

Lisbeth smiled, and looking down the length 
of the room, where she stood reflected in a 
mirror at the end of it, unfurled her fan, a 
gilded fan, thickly strewn with her purple pan- 
sies ; but she made no reply. 

A glass door, in the drawing-room, opened 
into a conservatory all aglow with light and 
bloom, and in this conservatory she was stand- 
ing half an hour later, when the first arrivals 
came. The door, a double one, was wide 
open, and she, in the midst of the banks and 
tiers of flowers, was bending over a vase of 
heliotrope, singing a low snatch of song. 

“ The fairest rose blooms but a day, 

The fairest Spring must end with May, 

And you and I can only say, 

Good-by, good-by, good-by ! ” 

She just sang this much, and stopped. One 


\J2 


Miss Crespigny . 


of the two people who had arrived was speak- 
ing to Mrs. Despard. She lifted her head, and 
listened. She could not see the speaker’s face, 
because a tall, tropical-leaved lily interposed it- 
self. But the voice startled her uncomforta- 
bly. 

“ Who is that man?” she said, to herself. 
“ Who is that man ? ” And then, without 
waiting another moment, she left the helio- 
trope, and made her way to the glass door. 

Mrs. Despard looked first, and saw her 
standing there. 

“ Ah, Lisbeth,” she said, and then turned, 
with a little smile, toward the gentleman who 
stood nearest to her. “ Here is an old friend,” 
she added, as Lisbeth advanced. “You are 
indebted to Mr. Lyon for the pleasure of see- 
ing Mr. Anstruthers again.” 

Lisbeth came forward, feeling as if she was 
on the verge of losing her amiable temper. 
What was Hector Anstruthers doing here? 
What did he want ? Had he been insane 
enough to come with any absurd fancy that — 
that he could — that — . But her irritated hesi- 
tance carried her no farther than this. The 
young man met her halfway, with the greatest 
self-possession imaginable. 

“ This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, 


Miss Crcspigny. 


173 


holding out his hand frankly. “ I was not 
aware, when Lyon brought me to his friend’s, 
that I should find you here.” 

All this, as complacently, be it observed, as 
if he had been addressing any other woman in 
the world ; as if that little affair of a few years 
ago had been too mere a bagatelle to be 
remembered ; as if his boyish passion, and 
misery, and despair, had faded utterly out of 
his mind. 

Mrs. Despard smiled again, and watched her 
young friend closely. But if Lisbeth was 
startled and annoyed by the too apparent 
change, she was too clever to betray herself. 
She was a sharp, secretive young person, and 
had her emotions well under control. She 
held out her hand with a smile of her own — a 
slow, well-bred, not too expressive affair, not 
an effusive affair, by any means. 

“ Delighted, I am sure ? ” she said. “ I have 
just been reading a letter from Aunt Clarissa, 
and naturally it has prepared me to be doubly 
glad to see one of her special favorites.” 

After that the conversation became general, 
Anstruthers somehow managing to take the 
lead. Lisbeth opened her eyes. Was this the 
boy she had left in the moonlight at Pen’yl- 
lan? The young simpleton who had been at 


174 


Miss Crespigny . 


her feet on the sands, spouting poetry, and 
adoring her, and making himself her grateful 
slave ? The impetuous, tiresome lad, who had 
blushed, and raved, and sighed, and, in the 
end, had succeeded in wearying her so com- 
pletely ? Three years had made a difference. 
Here was a sublime young potentate, won- 
drously altered, and absolutely wondrously 
well-looking. The mustache she had secretly 
sneered at in its budding youth, was long, 
silken, brown ; the slight, long figure had de- 
veloped into the fairest of proportions ; the 
guileless freshness of color had died away, 
and left an interesting, if rather significant 
pallor. Having been a boy so long, he seemed 
to have become a man all at once ; and as 
he stood talking to Mrs. Despard, and occa- 
sionally turning to Lisbeth, his serenity of 
manner did him credit. Was it possible that 
he knew what to say? It appeared so. He 
did not blush ; his hands and feet evidently 
did not incommode him. He was talking vi- 
vaciously, and with the air of a man of the 
world. He was making Mrs. Despard laugh, 
and there was every now and then a touch of 
daring, yet well-bred sarcasm in what he was 
saying. Bah ! He was as much older as she 
herself was. And yet, incongruous as the 


M iss Cresp igny. 175 

statement may appear, she hardly liked him 
any the better. 

“ How long,” she asked, abruptly, of Bertie 
Lyon, “ has Mr. Anstruthers been in London? ” 
Lyon, that radiant young dandy, was almost 
guilty of staring at her amazedly. 

“ Beg pardon,” he said. “ Did you say 
‘ how long ! ’ ” 

“ Yes.” 

The young man managed to recover himself. 
Perhaps, after all, she was as ignorant about 
Anstruthers as she seemed to be, and it was 
not one of her confounded significant speeches. 
They were nice enough people, of course, and 
Mrs. Despard was the sort of woman whose 
parties a fellow always liked to be invited to ; 
but then they were not exactly in the set to 
which Anstruthers belonged, and of which he 
himself was a shining member. 

“Well, you see,” he said, “ he has spent the 
greater part of his life in London ; but it was 
not until about three years ago that he began 
to care much about society. He came into his 
money then, when young Scarsbrook shot him- 
self accidentally, in Scotland, and he has lived 
pretty rapidly since,” with an innocent faith 
in Miss Cresjdigny’s ability to comprehend even 
a modest bit of slang. “ He is a tremendously 


176 


Miss Crespigny . 


talented fellow, Anstruthers — paints, and 
writes, and takes a turn at everything. He is 
the art-critic on the Cynic ; and people talk 
about what he does, all the more because he 
has no need to do anything ; and it makes him 
awfully popular.” 

Lisbeth laughed ; a rather savage little laugh. 
“ What is it that amuses you? ” asked Lyon. 
“Not Anstruthers, I hope.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” answered the young lady. “ Not 
this Anstruthers, but another gentleman of the 
same name, whom I knew a long time ago.” 

“ A long time ago?” said the young man, 
gallantly, if not with wondrous sapience. “ If 
it is a long time ago, I should think you must 
have been so young that your acquaintance 
would be hardly likely to make any impression 
upon you, ludicrous or otherwise.” For he was 
one of the victims, too, and consequently liked 
to make even a stupidly polite speech. 


Miss Crespigny . 


1 77 


CHAPTER III. 

PANSIES FOR THOUGHT. 

LlSBETH gave him a sweeping little curtsy, 
and looked at him sweetly, with her immense, 
dense eyes. 

“ That was very nice, indeed, in you,” she 
said, with a gravely obliged air. “ Pray, take 
one of my pansies.” And selecting one from 
her bouquet, she held it out to him, and Hector 
Anstruthers, chancing to glance toward them 
at the moment, had the pleasure of seeing the 
charming bit of by-play. 

It was the misfortune of Miss Crespigny’s 
admirers that they were rarely quite sure of 
her. She had an agreeable way of saying one 
thing, and meaning another ; of speaking with 
the greatest gravity, and at the same time mak- 
ing her hearer feel extremely dubious and un- 
comfortable. She was a brilliant young lady, 
a sarcastic young lady, and this was her mode 
of dealing with young men and women who 
otherwise might have remained too well satis- 
fied with themselves. Bertie Lyon felt him- 


178 


Miss Crespigny . 


self somewhat at a loss before her, always. It 
was not easy to resist her, when she chose to 
be irresistible ; but he invariably grew hot 
and cold over her “ confounded significant 
speeches/' And this was one of them. She 
was making a cut at him for his clumsy com- 
pliment, and yet he was compelled to accept 
her pansy, and fasten it on his coat, as if he 
was grateful. 

Mr. Hector Anstruthers had been installed, 
by universal consent, that evening, as a sort of 
young lion, whose gentlemanly roar was worth 
hearing. Young ladies had heard of him from 
their brothers, and one or two had seen those 
lovely little pictures of his last season. Ma- 
trons had heard their husbands mention him 
as a remarkable young fellow, who had unex- 
pectedly come into a large property, and yet 
wrote articles for the papers, and painted, when 
the mood seized him, for dear life. A really 
extraordinary young man, and very popular 
among highly desirable people. “ Rather reck- 
less," they would say, “ perhaps, and something 
of a cynic, as these young swells are often apt 
to be ; but, nevertheless, a fine fellow — a fine 
fellow ! ” And Anstruthers had condescended 
to make himself very agreeable to the young 
ladies to whom he was introduced ; had danced 


Miss Crespigny. 


179 


a little, had talked with great politeness to the 
elder matrons, and, in short, had rendered him- 
self extremely popular. Indeed, he was so 
well employed, that, until the latter part of the 
evening, Lisbeth saw very little of him. Then 
he appeared suddenly to remember her ex- 
istence, and dutifully made his way to her 
side, to ask for a dance, which invitation be- 
ing rather indifferently accepted, they walked 
through a quadrille together. 

“ I hope,” he said, with punctilious polite- 
ness, “ that the Misses Tregarthyn are well.” 

“ I am sorry to say,” answered Lisbeth, star- 
ing at her vis-a-vis , “that I don’t know.” 

“ Then I must have mistaken you. I under- 
stood you to say that you had just received a 
letter from Miss Clarissa.” 

“ It was not a mistake,” returned Lisbeth. 
“ I had just received one, but unfortunately 
they don’t write about themselves. They write 
about me.” 

“ Which must necessarily render their letters 
interesting,” said Anstruthers. 

Lisbeth barely deigned a slight shrug of her 
shoulders. 

“Necessarily,” she replied, “if one is so hap- 
pily disposed as never to become tired of one’s 
self.” 


Miss Crespigny . 


180 

“ It would be rank heresy to suppose,” said 
Anstruthers, “ that any of Miss Crespigny’s 
friends would allow it possible that any one 
could become tired of Miss Crespigny — even 
Miss Crespigny herself.” 

“This is the third figure, I believe,” was Lis- 
beth’s sole reply, and the music striking up 
again, they went on with their dancing. 

“He supposes,” said the young lady, scorn- 
fully, to herself, “that he can play the grand 
seigneur with me as he does with other women. 
I dare say he is congratulating himself on the 
prospect of making me feel sorry some day — 
me! Are men always simpletons? It really 
seems so. And it is the women whom we may 
blame for it. Bah ! he was a great deal more 
worthy of respect when he was nothing but a 
tiresome, amiable young bore. I hate these 
simpletons who think they have seen the world, 
and used up their experience.” 

She was very hard upon him, as she was 
rather apt to be hard upon every one but Lis- 
beth Crespigny. And it is not improbable that 
she was all the more severe, because he re- 
minded her unpleasantly of things she would 
have been by no means unwilling to forget. 
Was she so heartless as not to have a secret 
remembrance of the flush of his first young pas- 


Miss Crespigny . 


181 


sion, of his innocent belief in her girlish good- 
ness, of his generous eagerness to ignore all 
her selfish caprices, of his tender readiness to 
bear all her cruelty — for she had been cruel, 
and wantonly cruel, enough, God knows. Was 
she so utterly heartless as to have no memory 
of his suffering and struggles with his boyish 
pain, of his passionate, frantic appeal, when 
she had reached the climax of her selfishness 
and indifference to the wrong she might do ? 
Surely, no woman could be so hard, and I will 
not say that she was, and that she was not in- 
wardly stung this night by the thought that, 
if he had hardened and grown careless and 
unbelieving, the chances were that it was she 
herself who had helped to bring about the 
change for the worse. 

The two young men, Lyon and his friend, 
spending that night together, had a little con- 
versation on the subject of their entertain- 
ment, and it came to pass in this wise. 

Accompanying Anstruthers to his chambers, 
Lyon, though by no means a sentimental indi- 
vidual, carried Miss Crespigny’s gold and pur- 
ple pansy in his button-hole, and finding it 
there when he changed his dress coat for one 
of his friend’s dressing gowns, he took it out, 
and put it in a small slender vase upon the table. 


Miss Crespigny . 


182 

Anstruthers had flung himself into an easy- 
chair, with his chibouque, and through the 
wreaths of smoke, ascending from the fragrant 
weed, he saw what the young man was doing. 

“ Where did you get that?” he demanded, 
abruptly. 

“ It is one of those things Miss Crespigny 
wore,” was the modestly triumphant reply. 
“ You saw them on her dress, and in her hair, 
and on her fan. This is a real one, though, out 
of her bouquet. I believe they call them 
heart’s-ease.” 

“ Heart’s-ease be ,” began Anstruthers, 

roughly, but he checked himself in time. “ She 
is the sort of a woman to wear heart’s-ease ! ” 
he added, with a sardonic laugh. “ She ought 
to wear heart’s-ease, and violets, and lilies, 
and snowdrops, and wild roses in the bud,” 
with a more bitter laugh for each flower he 
named. “ Such fresh, innocent things suit 
women of*her stamp.” 

“ I say,” said Lyon, staring at his sneering 
face, amazedly, “ what is the matter? You 
talk as if you had a spite against her. What’s 
up r 

Anstruthers sneer only seemed to deepen in 
its intensity. 

“A spite ! ” he echoed. “What is the mat- 


Miss Crespigny. 




ter ? Oh, nothing — nothing of any conse- 
quence. Only I wish she had given her hearts- 
ease to me, or I wish you would give it to me, 
that I might show you what I advise you to do 
with the pretty things such creatures give you. 
Toss it into the fire, old fellow, and let it 
scorch, and blacken, and writhe, as if it was a 
living thing in torment. Or fling it on the 
ground, and set your heel upon it, and grind 
it out of sight.” 

“ I don’t see what good that would do,” said 
Lyon, coming to the mantelpiece, and taking 
down his meerschaum. “You are a queer fel- 
low, Anstruthers. I did not think you knew 
the girl.” 

“ I know her?” with a fresh sneer. “ I know 
her well enough.” 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Lyon, suddenly, as 
if a thought had struck him. “ Then she did 
mean something.” 

“ She generally means something,” returned 
the other. “ Such women invariably do — they 
mean mischief.” 

“ She generally does when she laughs in that 
way,” Lyon proceeded, incautiously. “ She is 
generally laughing at a man, instead of with 
him, as she pretends to be. And when she 
laughed, this evening, and looked in that odd 


1 84 M iss Crespigny . 

style at you, I thought there was something 
wrong.” 

Anstruthers turned white, the dead white of 
suppressed passion. 

“ Laugh ! ” he said. “ She laughed ? ” 

“ You see,” explained Lyon, “she had been 
asking about you ; and when I finished telling 
her what I knew, she looked at you under her 
eyelashes, as you stood talking to Mrs. Despard, 
and then she laughed ; and when I asked her if 
she was laughing at you, she said, ‘ Ah, no ! 
Not at you, but at another gentleman of the 
same name, whom she had known a long time 
ago. 

It was not the best thing for himself, that 
Hector Anstruthers could have heard. He had 
outlived his boyish passion, but he had not 
lived down the sting of it. Having had his 
first young faith broken, he had given faith up, 
as a poor mockery. He had grown cynical and 
sneering. Bah ! Why should he cling to his 
old ideals of truth and purity? What need 
that he should strive to be worthy of visions 
such as they had proved themselves? What 
was truth after all ? What was purity, in the 
end ? What had either done for him, when he 
had striven after and believed in them ? 

The accidental death of his cousin had made 


Miss Crespigny . 


185 


him a rich man, and he had given himself up 
to his own caprices. He had seen the world, 
and lived a lifetime during the last few years. 
What had there been to hold him back? Not 
love. He had done with that, he told himself. 
Not hope of any quiet bliss to come. If he 
ever married, he should marry some woman 
who knew what she was taking when she ac- 
cepted what he had to offer. 

And then he had gradually drifted into his 
artistic and literary pursuits, and his success 
had roused his vanity. He would be something 
more than the rest; and, incited by this noble 
motive, and his real love for the work, he had 
made himself something more. He had had no 
higher incentive than this vanity, and a fancy 
for popularity. It was not unpleasant to be 
pointed out as a genius — a man who, having 
no need to labor, had the whim to labor as hard 
when the mood seized, as the poorest Bohemian 
among them, and who would be paid for his 
work, too. “ They will give me praise for no- 
thing,” he would say, sardonically. “ They won’t 
give me money for nothing. As long as they 
will pay me, my work means something. When 
it ceases to be worth a price, it is not worth my 
time.” 

The experience of this evening had been a 


Miss Crespigny . 


1 86 

bad thing altogether for Anstruthers. It had 
roused in him much of sleeping evil. His 
meeting with Lisbeth Crespigny had been, as 
he told her, wholly unexpected. And because 
it had been unexpected, its effect had double 
force. He did not want to see her. If he had 
been aware of her presence in the house he was 
going to visit, he would have avoided it as he 
would have avoided the plague. The truth 
was, that in these days she had, in his mind, 
become the embodiment of all that was un- 
natural, and hard, and false. And meeting her 
suddenly, face to face, every bitter memory of 
her had come back to him with a fierce shock. 
When he had turned, as Mrs. Despard spoke, 
and had seen her standing in the doorway, 
framed in, as it were, with vines and flowers, 
and tropical plants, he had almost felt that he 
could turn on his heel and walk out of the 
room without a word of explanation. She 
would know well enough what it meant. Being 
the man he was, his eye had taken in at a 
glance every artistic effect about her ; and she 
was artistic enough ; for when Lisbeth Cres- 
pigny was not artistic she was nothing. He 
saw that the promise of her own undeveloped 
girlhood had fulfilled itself after its own rare, 
peculiar fashion, doubly and trebly. He saw 


Miss Crespigny . 


187 

in her what other men seldom saw at first sight, 
but always learned afterward, and his sense of 
repulsion and anger against her was all the 
more intense. Having been such a girl, what 
might she not be as such a woman ? Having 
borne such blossoms, what could the fruit be 
but hard and bitter at the core? Only his 
ever-ruling vanity saved him from greeting her 
with some insane, caustic speech. Vanity will 
serve both men and women a good turn, by 
chance, sometimes, and his saved him from 
making a blatant idiot of himself — barely saved 
him. And having got through this, it was not 
soothing to hear that she had stood, in her sly 
way, and looked at him under her eyelashes, 
and laughed. He knew how she would laugh. 
He had heard her laugh at people in that quiet 
fashion, when she was fifteen, and the sound 
had always hurt him, through its suggestion of 
some ungirlish satire he could not grasp, and 
which was not worthy of so perfect a being as 
he deemed her. 

So, he could not help breaking out again in 
new fury, when Bertie Lyon explained himself. 
It did not matter so much, breaking out before 
Lyon. Men could keep each other’s secrets. 
He flung his pipe aside with a rough word, and 
began to pace the room. 


Miss Crespigny. 


1 88 


“ There is more of devil than woman in her/' 
he said. “There always was. I’d give a few 
years of my life,” clenching his hand, “to be 
sure that she would find her match some day.” 
“ I should think you would be match enough 
for her,” remarked Lyon, astutely. “ But what 
has she done to make you so savage ? When 
wer e you in love with a woman? ” 

“Never!” bitterly. “I was in love with 
her, and she never belonged to the race, not 
even at fifteen years old. I was in love with 
her, and she has been the ruin of me.” 

“ I should scarcely have thought it,” an- 
swered Lyon. “You are a pretty respectable 
wreck, for your age.” 

The young man was not prone to heroics 
himself, and not seeing his friend indulge in 
them often, he did not regard them with en- 
thusiasm. 

This complacency checked Anstruthers. 
What a frantic fool he was, to let such a trifle 
upset his boasted cynicism? He flung out 
another short laugh of defiant self-ridicule. He 
came back to his chair as abruptly as he had 
left it. 

“ Bah ! ” he said. “ So I am. You are a 
wise boy, Lyon, and I am glad you stopped 
me. I thought I had lived down all this sort 


Miss Crespigny . x 89 

of nonsense, but — but I have seen that girl wear 
pansies before. Heart’s-ease, by Jove! And 
it gave me a twinge to think of it. Keep that 
one in the glass over there ; keep it as long as 
you choose, my boy. It will last as long as 
your fancy for her does, I wager. Women of 
the Crespigny stamp don’t wear well. Here, 
hand me that bottle — Or stay! I'll ring for my 
man, and we will have some brandy and soda, 
to cool our heated fancies. We are too young 
to stay up so late ; too young and innocent ! 
We ought to have gone to bed long ago, like 
good boys.” 


Miss Crespigny . 


190 


CHAPTER IV. 

A LUNCH PARTY. 

The studio of that popular and fortunate 
young man, Mr. Hector Anstruthers, was really 
a most gorgeous and artistic affair. It was 
beautifully furnished and wondrously fitted 
up, and displayed, in all its arrangements, 
the fact that its owner was a young man of 
refined and luxurious tastes, and was lucky 
enough to possess the means to gratify them 
to their utmost. People admired this studio, 
and talked about it almost as much as they 
talked about Anstruthers himself. Indeed, it 
had become a sort of fashion to visit it. The 
most exclusive of mammas, ladies who were so 
secure in their social thrones, that they were 
privileged to dictate to fashion, instead of 
being dictated to by that fickle goddess — ladies 
who made much of Anstruthers, and petted 
him, often stopped their carriages at his door 
on fine mornings, and descended therefrom with 
their marriageable girls, went up to the charm- 
ing room, and loitered through half an hour, 
or even more, talking to the young potentate, 


Miss Crespigny . 


191 

admiring his pictures, and picturesque odds 
and ends, and rarities, and making themselves 
very agreeable. He was an extravagant crea- 
ture, and needed some one to control him, these 
ladies told him ; but really it was all very pretty, 
and exquisitely tasteful ; and, upon the whole, 
they could hardly blame him as much as it was 
their duty to do. Anstruthers received these 
delicate attentions with quite a grace. 

He listened and smiled amiably, replying 
with friendly deprecation of their reproaches. 
Was he not paid a thousand-fold by their kind 
approval of his humble efforts ? What more 
could he ask than that they should grace the 
little place with their presence, and condescend 
to admire his collection ? Most men had their 
hobbies, and art was his — art and the artistic — 
a harmless, if extravagant one. And then he 
would beg his fair visitors and their escort to 
honor his small temple, by partaking of the 
luncheon his man would brine: in. And then 
the little luncheon would appear, as if by 
magic — a marvelous collation, as much a work 
of art as everything else ; and this being set 
out upon some carven wonder of a table, the 
ladies would deign to partake, and would ad- 
mire more than ever, until, in course of time, to 
visit Mr. Hector Anstruthers, among his pic- 


192 


Miss Crespigny . 


tures, and carvings, and marbles, and be invited 
to enjoy his dandified little feasts, became the 
most fashionable thing the most exclusive of 
people could do. So it was by no means extraor- 
dinary that, one sunny morning in April, my 
lord, while chatting with his usual condescend- 
ing amiability to one party of visitors, should 
receive another. There were three in this last 
party, an elderly beau, a young lady of uncer- 
tain age, and Mrs. Despard. Anstruthers, who 
was standing by the side of a pretty girl with 
bright eyes, started a little on the entrance of 
this lady, and the bright eyes observed it. 

“ Who is that ? ” asked their owner. “ She is 
a very distingue sort of person/’ And then she 
smiled. It was quite certain that he could not 
be enamored of such mature charms as these, 
distingue though they might be. 

“ That is Mrs. Despard, Miss Esmond,” an- 
swered Anstruthers. “ Excuse me, one mo- 
ment.” And then he advanced to meet his 
guests, with the cordiality of the most graceful 
of hosts. 

This was indeed a pleasure, he said, blandly. 
He had been half afraid that Mrs. Despard had 
forgotten her kind promise. 

That lady shook hands with him in a most 
friendly manner. She rather shared the uni- 


Miss Crespigny. 


T 93 


versal tendency people had to admire the young 
man. Were not all young men extravagant ? 
And at least this one had money enough to 
afford to be extravagant honestly, and attrac- 
tions enough to render even conceit a legiti- 
mate article. 

“ You must thank Mr. Estabrook and his sister 
for bringing me,” she said. “ They have been 
before and knew the way. We met them as 
they were coming here, and they asked us to 
come with them. Lisbeth would not get out 
of the carriage. She was either lazy or ill- 
humored. She was driven round to the library, 
and is to call for us in half an hour. 

Her eyes twinkled a little as she told him 
this. As I have said before, Lisbeth always 
interested her, and she was interested now in 
her mode of managing this old love affair. It 
was so plain that it rasped her to be brought 
in contact with him and that she would have 
preferred very much to keep out of his way, 
that the fact of her being thrown in his path 
against her will could not fail to have its spice, 
and afford Mrs. Despard a little malicious 
amusement. In secret, she was obliged to con- 
fess that, ill-natured as it seemed, she would not 
have been verv sorry to see Lisbeth at bav. Of 
Anstruthers’ sentiments she was not quite sure, 


194 


Miss Crcspigny . 


as yet, but she was very sure of Lisbeth’s. 
Lisbeth knew that she had acted atrociously in 
the past, and hating herself in private for her 
weak wickedness, hated Anstruthers too for his 
share in it. It was not Lisbeth’s way to be 
either very just or very generous. All her pangs 
of self-reproach were secret ones, of which she 
had taught herself to be ashamed, and which 
she would have died rather than confess. She 
let her caprices rule her wholly, and did her 
best to make them rule other people. If she 
was angry, she made vicious speeches ; if she 
was pleased, she behaved like an angel, or an 
angelic creature without a fault. She did not 
care enough for other people to mold her 
moods to their taste. The person of most con- 
sequence to her was Lisbeth Crespigny. 

Mrs. Despard found her visit to her young 
friend’s studio very entertaining. She saw 
things to admire, and things to be amused at. 
She discovered that his own efforts were really 
worth looking at, and that the fixtures he had 
collected were both valuable and exquisite. 
He had bought no costly lots of ugliness, he 
had bought beauty. As to the appurtenances 
of the room, a woman could not have chosen 
them better — most women would not have 
chosen them so well. Indeed, a touch of ef- 


Miss Crespigny. 


195 


feminate fancifulness in the general arrange- 
ment of things made her smile more than once. 
He had arranged a sort of miniature conserva- 
tory in a wide, deep bay-window, filled it with 
tiers of flowers growing in fanciful vases, and 
hanging baskets full of delicate, long vines, and 
bright bloom. 

“ What a dandy we are ! ” she said, smiling, 
when she drew aside the sweeping lace curtain 
which cut this pretty corner off from the rest 
of the apartment. “ And what fine tastes we 
display ! ” 

Anstruthers blushed a little. He had ac- 
companied her on her tour of exploration, and 
had been secretly flattered by her evident ad- 
miration and surprise. 

“ Is that a compliment, or is it not ? ” he an- 
swered. “ I like to hear that I have fine taste, 
but I don’t like to be called a dandy.” 

“ Isn’t it a trifle dandified to know how to do 
all these things so well?” she asked. “It is 
a man’s province to be clumsy and ignorant 
about the small graces.” 

“ Isn’t it better than doing them ill ? ” he 
said. “ Pray let me give you two or three pale 
rosebuds and a few sweet violets.” 

“ If you bribe me with violets and rosebuds, 
I shall say it is better that you should be 


ig6 


Miss Crespigny . 


aesthetic enough to care to cultivate them, than 
that I should not have the pleasure of receiv- 
ing them as a gift. It is very pretty of you to 
do such things.” 

There was no denying that they had become 
excellent friends. There were not many peo- 
ple to whom his lordship would have offered 
his rosebuds and violets, but for some rea- 
son or other he had taken a sudden fancy to 
Mrs. Despard, and was anxious to show him- 
self to advantage. He was even ready to an- 
swer her questions, and once or twice they 
were somewhat close ones, it must be con- 
fessed. 

“ Tell me something about that nice girl,” 
she said, glancing at Miss Esmond, who was 
talking to the rest of the party. “ What a 
pretty creature she is, and how bright her eyes 
and her color are ! There are very few girls 
who look like that in these days.” 

“Very few,” answered Anstruthers. “That 
nice girl is Miss Georgie Esmond, and she is 
one of the few really nice girls who have the 
luck to take public fancy by storm, as they 
ought to. She has not been 4 out ’ long, and 
she is considered a belle and a beauty. And 
yet I assure you, Mrs. Despard, that I have 
seen that girl playing with a troop of little 


Miss Crespigrty . 


197 


brothers and sisters, as if she was enjoying her- 
self, helping a snuffy old French governess to 
correct exercises, and bringing a light for the 
old colonel’s pipe, as if she had never seen a 
ball-room in her life.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Mrs. Despard, “then I suppose 
you have seen her in the bosom of her family,” 
a trifle slyly. 

“ I know them very well,” replied the young 
man, with a grave air. “ I have known Georgie 
Esmond since she wore pinafores. My poor 
cousin, who died, has played blindman’s buff 
with us at Scarsbrook Park, when we were 
children, many a time. The fact is, I believe 
we are distant relations.” 

“ I congratulate you on the distance of the 
relationship,” said Mrs. Despard. “ She is a 
fresh, bright, charming girl.” 

“She is a good girl,” said Anstruthers. 
“ Congratulate her on that, and congratulate 
her father, and her mother, and her brothers 
and sisters, and the snuffy old governess, whose 
life she tries to make less of a burden to her.” 
It was at this moment that the carriage in 
which Lisbeth had driven away returned. It 
drove by the window, and drew up at the door, 
and Mrs. Despard saw her young friend’s face 
alter its expression when he caught sight of it, 


198 


Miss Crespigny . 


with its prancing bays and faultless accompa- 
niments, and Lisbeth Crespigny leaning back 
upon the dove-colored cushions, with a book 
in her little dove-colored hand. She saw Mrs. 
Despard among the flowers, but did not see 
her companion ; and being in an amiable hu- 
mor, she gave her a smile and a nice little ges- 
ture of greeting. Her eyes looked like mid- 
night in the sunshine, and with a marvel of a 
cream-colored rose in her hat, and in perfect 
toilet, she was like a bit of a picture, dark, and 
delicate, and fine ; she struck Anstruthers in 
an instant, just as anything else artistic would 
have struck him, and held his attention. 

“ I wonder if she would come up,” Mrs. 
Despard said. “ I wish she would. She ought 
to see this. It would suit her exactly.” 

“ Allow me to go down and ask her if 
she will do us the honor,” said Anstruthers. 
“ Colonel Esmond and his daughter have pro- 
mised to take luncheon, and I was in hopes that 
I could persuade your party to join us. It will 
be brought on almost immediately.” 

“ That is as novel as the rest,” said Mrs. 
Despard, by no means displeased. “ However, 
if you can induce Lisbeth to come up, I am 
not sure that I shall refuse.” 

“ I wonder what he will say to her,” was her 


Miss Crespigny. 


199 

mental comment, when he left the room, and 
she looked out of her window with no small 
degree of interest. 

She saw him standing upon the pavement, 
by the carriage, a moment or so later, his face 
slightly upturned, as he spoke to the girl, the 
spring wind playing softly with his loose, fair 
hair, and the spring sunshine brightening it ; 
and something in his manner, she scarcely 
knew what, brought back to her a sudden 
memory of the frank, boyish young fellow he 
had been when Lisbeth first amused herself, 
with her cool contempt for his youth and im- 
petuousness, at Pen’yllan. And just as sud- 
denly it occurred to her, what a wide difference 
she found in him now. How ready he w r as to 
say caustic things, to take worldly views, and 
indulge in worldly sneers ; and she recollected 
the stories she had drifted upon ; stories which 
proved him a life's journey from the boy whose 
record had been pure, whose heart had been 
fresh, whose greatest transgression might have 
been easily forgiven ; and remembering all 
this, she felt a sharp anger against Lisbeth, an 
anger sharper than she had ever felt toward 
her in the whole of her experience. 

When Anstruthers appeared upon the pave- 
ment, and advanced toward the carriage side, 


200 


Miss Crespigny. 


Lisbeth turned toward him with a feeling of no 
slight displeasure. Since she had made an 
effort to keep out of his way, must he follow 
her up ? 

“ Is not Mrs. Despard coming?” she asked, 
somewhat abruptly. 

“ Mrs. Despard was so kind as to say, that if 
I could induce you to leave the carriage and 
join our little party, she would not refuse to 
take luncheon with us.” And then he stood 
and waited for her reply. 

“ I was not aware that she thought of stay- 
ing,” said Lisbeth. “ If I had known ” 

Then she checked herself. “ If I refuse,” 
she said, in secret, “ he will think I am afraid 
of him.” And she regarded him keenly. But 
he was quite immovable, and merely appeared 
politely interested. 

“ If you will be so good as to let me help 
you down,” he said, opening the low door him- 
self, and extending his hand courteously, “'we 
shall be delighted to have such an addition to 
our number,” he added. 

“ You are very kind,” answered Lisbeth, ris- 
ing. He should not think his presence could 
influence her one way or the other. She 
made up her mind to face this position, since 
it was unavoidable, as if it had been the most 


Miss Crespigny . 


201 


ordinary one in the world. She entered the 
room up stairs as if she had expected to lunch 
there. Miss Esmond, who was always good- 
naturedly ready to be enthusiastic, turned to 
look at her with a smile of pleasure. 

“ What an unusual type ! ” she said, to her 
father. “ Do look, papa ! She is actually ex- 
quisite ! ” And being introduced to her, her 
frank, bright eyes became brighter than ever. 
She was one of those lovable, trusting young 
creatures, who are ready to fall in love with 
pleasant people or objects on the shortest no- 
tice ; and she was captivated at once by Lis- 
beth’s friendly air. Her age and Lisbeth’s 
were about the same, but by nature and experi- 
ence they were very wide apart, Miss Cres- 
pigny being very much the older and more 
worldly-wise of the two. If it had come to a 
matter of combat between them, Miss Georgie 
would have had no chance whatever. 


202 


Miss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER V. 

GEORGIE ESMOND. 

It suited Lisbeth to be charming this morn- 
ing, and she was really very agreeable indeed. 
She knew enough of art to appear to advan- 
tage among pictures, and she had, withal, a cer- 
tain demure and modest way of admitting her 
ignorance, which was by no means unattractive. 
She was bright, amiable, and, as it seemed, in 
the best of spirits. She made friends with Miss 
Georgie, and delighted Colonel Esmond ; she 
propitiated Miss Estabrook, and rendered that 
inflammable elderly beau, her brother, supreme- 
ly happy by her friendly condescension ; she 
treated Anstruthers as if there had been no 
other event in their two lives but this one 
morning and this one nice little party. She 
made the luncheon even more entertaining 
than such small feasts usually were ; in short, 
she was Lisbeth Crespigny at her best, her 
spiciest, and in her most engaging mood. 

“ Oh ! ” said that open-hearted Georgie, when 
she shook hands with her as they parted — “ Oh, 
I have enjoyed myself so much ! I am so glad 


Miss Crespigny . 


203 


to have met you. I hope we shall see each 
other again. Please ask me to call, Mrs. Des- 
pard,” laughing prettily. “ I should like it so 
much. I do so hate to lose people whom I like.” 
“ Does that mean that you are so good as to 
like me a little?” said Lisbeth, in her sweetest 
tone, wondering, at the same time, how on 
earth the girl could have lived so long, and yet 
have retained that innocent, believing air and 
impulsive way. “ I hope it does.” 

Georgie quite blushed with innocent fervor. 

“ Indeed it does,” she answered. “ I should 
not say it, if it did not. And I am sure that, 
if I see you more, I shall like you better and 
better. It is so delightful to meet somebody 
one is sure one can be fond of.” 

It was an odd thing, but as Lisbeth looked 
at her for a moment, she positively felt that 
she blushed faintly herself, blushed with a 
sense of being a trifle ashamed of Lisbeth Cres- 
pigny. It would be dreadful to have such 
a girl as this find her out ; see her just as she 
was; read her record just as the past had left 
it. She was half inclined to put such a thing 
beyond the pale of possibility by drawing 
back. 

“ I want mamma to know you,” said Georgie. 
“ Mamma is so fond of clever people, that it 


204 


Miss Crcspigny . 


makes me wish, often enough, that I was not 
such an ordinary sort of girl.” 

“ We shall be delighted to see you, my dear,” 
said Mrs. Despard. “ You may be sure of that. 
Come as soon, and as often as possible.” 

And so the matter was decided, and Lisbeth 
had not the power to draw back, if she had 
determined to do so. 

“ You must have known Miss Crespigny quite 
a long time,” Georgie Esmond said, cheerfully, 
to Anstruthers, before she went away with her 
father. “ Mrs. Despard said something about 
your having met her at that little Welsh place, 
Pen’yllan wasn’t it? And you haven’t been at 
Pen’yllan to stay for two or three years.” 

“ You ought not to have kept such a charm- 
ing creature to yourself for three years, my 
boy,” said the old colonel. 

“ I should think not, indeed,” chimed in 
Miss Georgie. “ It was selfish, and we are 
never selfish with him, are we, papa? We 
show him all our nice people, don’t we?” 

“ But,” said Anstruthers, “ I have not seen 
Miss Crespigny once during the three years. 
After leaving Pen’yllan, we lost sight of each 
other, somehow or other, and did not meet 
again until a short time ago, and then it was 
quite by accident.” 


Miss Crespigny . 


205 


“ It was very careless of you to lose her 
then/’ protested Miss Georgie. “I would not 
have lost her for the world. Gentlemen are 
so cold in their friendships. I don’t believe 
you ever really loved any of your friends in 
your life, Mr. Hector.” 

Anstruthers smiled a satirical smile. 

“ Ought I to have loved Miss Crespigny?” 
he demanded. “ Ought I to begin to love her 
now? If you think it is my duty, I will begin 
to do it at once, Georgie.” 

The girl shook her pretty head reproach- 
fully. 

“ Oh ! ” she said, “ that is always the way 
you talk, you grand young gentlemen. It is 
the fashion to be sarcastic, and not to admire 
anybody very much, or anything but your- 
selves,” saucily. “ And you would sneer at 
your best friends rather than not be in the 
fashion. I am sure I don't know what the 
world is coming to.” 

“ Who is sarcastic now, I should like to 
know?” said Anstruthers. “I think it is Miss 
Georgie Esmond, who out-Herods Herod. Ad- 
mire ourselves, indeed ! We only do what we 
are taught to do. What women themselves 
teach us ” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Georgie. “ Do we 


206 ’ Miss Crcspigny . 

teach you to admire yourselves, and nothing 
else ? ” 

“No,” was his answer. “You do not teach 
us that, but you do worse. Not you, my kind, 
honest Georgie, but women who would have us 
believe they are as honest and tender. They 
teach us that if we cling to our first beliefs, we 
are fools, and deserve to be laughed at ; they 
teach us to sneer, and then scold us prettily for 
sneering ; they leave us nothing to believe in, 
and then make sad, poetic speeches about our 
want of faith. There are men in the world 
for whom it would have been better if they had 
never seen a woman.” 

Georgie Esmond’s eyes opened wider and 
wider. She did not understand such bitterness. 
She was a simple, healthful-minded girl, and 
had seen very little of the world but its plea- 
sant side. 

“Why!” she said, “this is dreadful. And 
you say it as if you actually meant it. I shall 
have to talk to mamma about you, Hector. 
Such cases as yours are too much for me to 
deal with. What good is all your money, and 
your genius, and your popularity, and — and 
good looks?” making a charming, mischievous 
bow. “ What pleasure can you derive from 
your pretty rooms, and lovely pictures, and 


Miss Crespigny . 


207 


fine articles of vertu , if you have such wicked 
thoughts as those ? Somebody ought to take 
your things from you, as we do Harry’s toys, 
when he is willful ; and they ought to be locked 
up in a cupboard, until you are in a frame of 
mind to enjoy them.” 

Anstruthers looked at her sweet, bright face 
with a kind of sad admiration. Why had he 
not fallen in love with this girl, instead of with 
the other ? It was a hard fate which had led 
or driven him. What a different man he might 
have been, if, three years ago, Georgie Esmond 
had stood in Lisbeth Crespigny’s place ! 

“You don’t quite understand, Georgie,” he 
said, in a low, rather tender tone. “You are 
too good and kind, my dear, to quite compre- 
hend what makes people hard, and bitter, and 
old before their time.” 

And Colonel Esmond coming into the room 
to take her away, at this moment, he gave her 
nice little hand the ghost of an affectionate 
pressure, when she offered it to him in farewell. 

And while Mr. Hector Anstruthers was rail- 
ing, in this exalted strain, at the falseness of 
womankind, the fair cause of his heresy was 
driving home in a rather unpleasant frame of 
mind. It is never pleasant to find that one 
has lost power, and it was a specially galling 


208 


Miss Crespigny. 


thing to Lisbeth Crespigny to find herself at 
any time losing influence of any kind. She did 
not find it agreeable to confront the fact that 
one of her slaves had purchased his freedom, 
with his experience. Petty as the emotion 
was, she had felt something akin to anger this 
morning, when she had been compelled to 
acknowledge, as once or twice she had been, 
that her whilom victim could address her 
calmly, meet her glance with polite indiffer- 
ence, regard her, upon the whole, as he would 
have regarded any far less accomplished 
woman. 

“ Less than four years ago,” she said to her- 
self, with scorn, “ if I had trampled upon him, 
he would have kissed my feet. To-day, he 
only sees in me an unpleasant young woman, 
whom he overrated, and accordingly cherishes a 
grudge against. I have no doubt he looked at 
that pretty, fresh, Esmond girl, as we sat 
together, and drew invidious comparisons be- 
tween us.” 

Let us give her credit for one thing, how- 
ever. She felt no anger against the girl, who 
she fancied had taken her place. Somehow 
Georgie Esmond, with her bright eyes, and her 
roses, and her ready good-nature, had found a 
soft spot in Lisbeth’s rather hard heart. Miss 


Miss Crespigny . 


209 


Crespigny could not have explained why it 
was, but she had taken a fancy to Georgie 
Esmond. She liked her, and she wanted the 
feeling to be a mutual one. She would have 
experienced something very like a pang, even 
thus early in their acquaintance, if she had 
thought that the sweet, honest young creature 
would ever see her with Hector Anstruthers’ 
eyes. 

“ Men are always disproportionately bitter,” 
she said, to herself. “ It is their way to make 
themselves heard when they are hurt. They 
seem to have a kind of pride in their pain. 
Any ordinarily clever woman could see that 
my lord of the studio had a grievance.” 

“ Lisbeth,” said Mrs. Despard, breaking in 
upon her reverie, “ isn’t it rather astonishing 
how that boy has improved?” 

“ He has improved,” said Lisbeth, “because 
he has ceased to be a boy. He is a man in 
these days.” 

“And a very personable and entertaining 
man, I must say,” returned Mrs. Despard, nod- 
ding her head, in approval of him. “He is 
positively handsome. And that luncheon was 
a very pretty, graceful affair, and quite unique. 
I shall pay him a visit again one of these fine 
days.” 


210 


Miss Crcspigny. 


Being thus installed as one of Mrs. Despard’s 
favorites, it was not at all singular that they 
should see a great deal of the young gentleman. 
And they did see him pretty often. Gradually 
he forgot his objection to meeting Lisbeth, and 
rather sneered in secret at the violence of that 
first shock of repulsion. It was all over, now, 
he said, and why should such a woman trouble 
him ? Indeed, what greater proof of his security 
could he give himself than the fact that he 
could meet her almost daily, and still feel in- 
different ? It must be confessed that he rather 
prided himself upon his indifference. He was 
drawn also into greater familiarity with the 
household through Georgie Esmond. For, in 
expressing her wish to make friends with Lis- 
beth, Georgie had been sincere, as was her 
habit. A very short time after the luncheon 
her first visit was made, and the first visit was 
the harbinger of many others. “ Mamma,” 
who was her daughter’s chief admiration, came 
with her, and “ mamma ” was as much charmed, 
in her way, as Georgie had been in hers. It 
was impossible for Lisbeth to help pleasing 
people when she was in the right mood ; and 
Mrs. Esmond and Georgie invariably put her 
in the right mood. She could not help show- 
ing her best side to these two sweet natures. 


Miss Crespigny . 


21 1 


CHAPTER VI. 

A SONG. 

THUS a friendship arose which, in the course 
of time, became a very close one. Colonel 
Esmond’s house was luxurious and pleasant, 
and everybody’s heart opened to a favorite 
of Georgie’s. Accordingly, Lisbeth’s niche in 
the family was soon found. It was rather 
agreeable to go among people who admired 
and were ready to love her, so she went pretty 
often. In fact, Georgie kept firm hold upon 
her. There appeared always some reason 
why it was specially necessary that Lisbeth 
should be with her. She had visitors, or she 
was alone and wanted company ; she had some 
new music and wanted Lisbeth’s help, or she 
had found some old songs Lisbeth must try — 
Lisbeth, whose voice was so exquisite. Indeed, 
it was Lisbeth, Lisbeth, Lisbeth, from week to 
week, until more than one of Miss Esmond’s 
admirers wished that there had been no such 
person as Miss Crespigny in the world. As 
Anstruthers had said, Miss Georgie Esmond 
was quite a belle, in this the first year of her 


212 


Miss Crespigny. 


reign, and if she had been so inclined, it was 
generally believed that she might have achieved 
some very brilliant social triumphs, indeed. 
But I am afraid that she had the bad taste not 
to aspire as she might have done. 

“ I don’t want to be uncharitable,” she had 
said, innocently, to her friend. “ And I don’t 
in the least believe the things people often say 
about society — the things Hector says, for in- 
stance ; but really, Lisbeth, I have sometimes 
thought that the life behind all the glare and 
glitter was just the least bit stupid and hollow. 
I know I should get dreadfully tired of it, if I 
had nothing else to satisfy me ; no real home- 
life, and no true, single-hearted, close friends to 
love, like you and mamma.” 

It made Lisbeth wince, this pretty speech. 
Georgie Esmond often made her wince. 

And Mr. Hector Anstruthers discovered this 
fact before any great length of time had passed, 
and the discovery awakened in him divers new 
sensations. 

He had looked on at the growing friendship 
with a secret sneer ; but the sneer was not at 
Georgie. Honestly, he liked the girl something 
the better for her affectionate credulity ; no- 
thing could contaminate her, not even Lisbeth 
Crespigny. But sometimes, just now and then, 


Miss Crespigny. 


213 


he found it a trifle difficult to control himself, 
and resist the impulse to be openly sarcastic. 

He encountered this difficulty in special 
force one evening about a month after the 
studio luncheon. The girls had spent the after- 
noon together, and, dinner being over, Lisbeth 
was singing one of Georgie’s favorite songs. 
It was a love song, too, for though Miss Georgie 
had as yet had no practical experience in the 
matter of love, she had some very pretty ideas 
of that tender passion, and was very fond of 
love songs, and poems, and love stories, such as 
touched her heart, and caused her to shed a 
few gentle tears. And this song was a very 
pretty one, indeed. “ All for love, and the 
world well lost,” was the burden of its guile- 
less refrain. All for love, love which is always 
true, and always tender, and never deceives us. 
What is the world, it demanded, what is life, 
what rest can we find if we have not love? The 
world is our garden, and love is the queen 
of roses, its fairest bloom. Let us gather 
what flowers we may, but, oh, let us gather 
the rose first, and tend it most delicately. It 
will give its higher beauty to our lives ; it will 
make us more fit for heaven itself ; it will 
shame our selfishness, and help us to forget 
our sordid longings. All for love, and the 


214 


Miss Crespigny . 


world well lost. And so on, through three or 
four verses, with a very sweet accompaniment, 
which Georgie played with great taste. 

And Lisbeth was singing, and, as she had 
a trick of doing, was quite forgetting her- 
self. And her exquisite, full-toned voice rose 
and fell with a wondrous fervor, and her im- 
mense dark eyes glared, and her small pale face 
glowed, and a little pathetic shadow seemed to 
rest upon her. So well did she sing, indeed, 
that one might have fancied that she had done 
nothing, all her life, but sing just such sweetly 
sentimental songs, and believe every word of 
them implicitly ; and when she had finished, 
Georgie’s eyes were full of tears. 

“ Oh, Lisbeth ! ” she cried, looking up at her 
affectionately, “ you make everything sound so 
beautiful and — and true. I could never, never 
sing in that way. It must be because you can 
feel beautiful, tender things so deeply, so much 
more deeply than other people do.” 

Lisbeth awoke from her dream suddenly. 
Hector Anstruthers, who had been standing 
at the other side of the piano, looked at her 
with a significance which would have roused 
her at any time. Their eyes met, and both 
pair flashed ; his with the very intensity of con- 
tempt; hers with defiance. 


Miss Crespigny . 


215 


“ My dear Georgie,” he said, “ I admire your 
enthusiasm, but scarcely think you quite un- 
derstand Miss Crespigny. She is one of those 
fortunate people who cannot help doing things 
well. It is a habit she has acquired. No sen- 
timent would suffer in her hands, even a senti- 
ment quite opposite to the one she has just 
illustrated the force of so artistically.” 

Georgie looked a little amazed. She did not 
liked to be chilled when all her gentle emotions 
were in full play ; and, apart from this, did not 
such a speech sound as if it suggested a doubt 
of the sincerity of her beloved Lisbeth ? 

“ People cannot teach themselves to be inno- 
cent and loving,” she said, almost indignantly. 
“ At least, they cannot be artistically loving 
and innocent. You cannot make art of truth 
and faith, and you cannot be generous and 
kind through nothing but habit. Your heart 
must be good before you can be good yourself. 
At least, that is my belief, and I would rather 
have my beliefs than your cynicisms ; and so 
would Lisbeth, I am sure, even if they are not 
so brilliant and popular. You are too sarcas- 
tic, sir, and you have quite spoiled our pretty 
song.” 


u 


“ I did not mean to spoil it,” he answered. 
Forgive me, I beg,” with a satirical bow, 


2 16 


Miss Crespigny. 


“ and pray favor me with another, that I may 
learn to believe. Perhaps I shall. I am in- 
clined to think Miss Crespigny could convince 
a man of anything.” 

“You don’t deserve another,” said Georgie. 
“ Does he, Lisbeth ? ” 

“ Hardly,” said Lisbeth, who was turning 
over some music, with an indifferent face. But 
she sang again nevertheless, and quite as well 
as she had done before, though it must be ad- 
mitted that she influenced Georgie to a choice 
of songs of a less Arcadian nature. 

The following morning Anstruthers called to 
see Mrs. Despard, and found that lady absent, 
and Miss Crespigny in the drawing-room. Con- 
sequently, it fell to Miss Crespigny’s lot to 
entertain him during his brief visit. He made 
it as brief as possible ; but when he rose to 
take his leave, to his surprise Lisbeth detained 
him. 

“ There is something I should like to say to 
you,” she began, after she had risen with 
him. 

He paused, hat in hand. 

“It is about Georgie — Miss Esmond,” she 
added. “ You were very kind to speak to her of 
me as you did last night. It was very generous. 
I feel that I ought to thank you for trying to 


Miss Crespigny . 


2I 7 


make her despise me.” And her eyes flashed 
with an expression not easy to face. 

“ I ask pardon/’ he returned, loftily. “ If I 
had understood that your friendship was of such 
a nature ” 

“ If its object had been a man, instead of 
an innocent girl, you would have understood 
easily enough, I have no doubt,” she inter- 
posed, angrily. 

He bowed, with the suspicion of a sneer 
upon his face. 

“Perhaps,” he answered. 

“ Thank you,” said she. “ However, since 
you need the matter explained, I will explain 
it. I am fond of Georgie Esmond, and she is 
fond of me, and I do not choose to lose her 
affection ; so I must resort to the poor expedi- 
ent of asking you to deny yourself the gratifica- 
tion of treating me contemptuously in her pres- 
ence. Say what you please when we are alone, 
as we are sometimes forced to be ; but when 
we are with your cousin, be good enough to 
remember that she is my friend, and trusts me.” 

It was so like the girl Lisbeth, this daring, 
summary course, this confronting and settling 
the matter at once, without the least' sign of 
hesitation or reluctance, that he began to feel 
very uncomfortable. Had he really behaved 


2 18 


M iss Crespigny . 


himself so badly, indeed ? Was it possible that 
he had allowed himself to appear such a ram- 
pant brute as her words implied? He, who so 
prided himself upon his thoroughbred impas- 
sibility ? 

“ I treat you contemptuously ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ It is not you I care for,” she answered him. 
“ It is Georgie Esmond.” 

He had no resource left but to accept his 
position, the very humiliating position of a man 
whose apologies, if he offered any, would be 
coolly set aside, whose humiliation was of no 
consequence, and who was expected to receive 
punishment, like a culprit whose sensations 
were not for a moment to be regarded. 

He left the house feeling angry and helpless, 
and returning to his chambers, wrote a stinging 
criticism of a new book. Poor Blanke,who had 
written the book, received the benefit of the 
sentiments Miss Crespigny had roused. 

On her part, Lisbeth resorted to one of her 
“ humors,” to use Mrs. Despard’s expression. 
She was out of patience with herself. She had 
lost her temper almost as soon as she had spoken 
her first words ; and she had been so sure of 
perfect self-control before she began. That 
was her secret irritant. Why could she not 
have managed it better? It was not usual 


Miss Crespigny . 219 

with her to give way when she was sure of 
herself. 

“ Somebody has been here,” said Mrs. Des- 
pard, when she came in, and found her sitting 
alone with her sewing. “ Some one you do 
not like, or some one who has said something 
awkward or unpleasant to you.” 

“ Hector Anstruthers has been here,” was 
Lisbeth’s answer, but she deigned no further 
explanation, and did not even lift her eyes as 
she spoke. 


220 


Miss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER VII. 

A NEW EXPERIENCE. 

The next time that Georgie found herself 
alone with Mr. Anstruthers, she read him a 
very severe little lecture on the subject of his 
shortcomings. 

“ I knew that you liked to be satirical, and 
make fine, cutting speeches,” she said, with the 
prettiest indignation ; “ but I did not think 
you would have gone so far as to be openly 
rude, and to Lisbeth, of all people ! Lisbeth, 
who is so good, and unselfish, and kind, and 
who is mv dearest friend.” 

Hector Anstruthers looked at her sweet face 
almost mournfully. “ Is she good, and unself- 
ish, and kind?” he said. But the question was 
not a satire. He only asked it in a tender 
wonder at the girl’s innocent faith. 

“ There is no one like her. No one so good, 
unless it is mamma herself,” exclaimed Miss 
Georgie, with warmth. 

“ But Lisbeth’s is not a common surface 
goodness, and I suppose that is the reason that 
you cannot see it. You, too, who are so far- 


Miss Crespigny . 


221 


sighted and clever. I, for one, am glad I am 
not a genius, if to be a genius one must be 
blind to everything but the failings of one’s 
friends. Ah, Hector!” a sudden pity kindling 
in her gentle breast, as she met his eyes, 
“Ah, Hector, people often envy you, and call 
you fortunate, but there are times when I am 
sorry for you — sorry from my heart.” 

“ Georgie,” answered the young man, not 
quite able to control a tremor in his voice, 
“ there are more times than you dream of, 
when I am sorry for myself.” 

“ Sorry for yourself ? ” said Georgie, soften- 
ing at once. “Then you must be more un- 
happy than I thought. To be sorry for one’s 
self, one must be unhappy indeed. But why 
is it ? Why should you be unhappy, after all ? 
Why should you be cynical and unbelieving, 
Hector? The world has been very good to 
you, or, as I think we ought to say, God has 
been very good to you. What have you not 
got, that you can want ? What is there that 
you lack? Not money, not health, not friends. 
Isn't it a little ungrateful to insist on being 
wretched, when you have so much ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Anstruthers, gloomily. “ It 
is very ungrateful, indeed.” 

“Ungrateful? I should think it was,” re- 


222 


Miss Crespigny . 


turned Georgie, with her favorite dubious shake 
of the head. “ Ah, poor fellow ! I am afraid 
it is a little misfortune that you need, and I 
am very sorry to see it.” 

It was no marvel that Georgie Esmond was 
popular. She was one of those charming girls 
who invariably have a good effect upon people. 
She was so good herself, so innocent, so honest, 
so trustful, that she actually seemed to create 
a sweeter atmosphere wherever she went. The 
worst of men, while listening to her gentle, 
bright speeches, felt that the world was not so 
bad after all, and that there was still sweetness 
and purity left, to render sin the more shame- 
ful bv their white contrast. “ A fellow wants 
to forget his worst side, when he is with her,” 
said one. “ She makes a man feel that he 
would like to hide his shadinesses even from 
himself.” Her effect upon Hector Anstruthers 
was a curious, and rather a dangerous one. She 
made him ashamed of himself, too, and she 
filled his heart with a tender longing and re- 
gret. Elad it not been for his experience with 
Lisbeth, he would have loved the girl passion- 
ately. As it was, his affection for her would 
never be more than a brotherly, though in- 
tensely admiring one. He was constantly 
wishing that Fate had given Georgie to him ; 


Miss Crespigny . 


223 


Georgie, who seemed to him the purest and 
loveliest of young home goddesses ; Georgie, 
who would have made his life happy, and pure, 
and peaceful. If it had only been Georgie 
instead of Lisbeth. But it had been Lisbeth, 
and his altar-fires had burned out, and left to 
him nothing but a waste of cold, gray ashes. 
And yet, knowing this, he could not quite give 
Georgie up. The mere sight of her fresh, 
bright-eyed face was a help to him, and the 
sound of her voice a balm. He grew fonder 
of her every day, in his way. Her kindly, little 
girlish homilies touched and warmed him. As 
Lisbeth had made him worse, so Georgie Es- 
mond made him better. But the danger ! The 
danger was not for himself, it was for Georgie. 

The day was slowly dawning when the girl’s 
innocent friendship and admiration for him 
would become something else. When she be- 
gan to pity him, she began to tread on unsafe 
ground. She had lived through no miserable 
experience ; she had felt no desolating passion ; 
her heart was all untried, and his evident af- 
fection stirred it softly, even before she un- 
derstood her own feelings. She thought her 
budding love was pity, and her tenderness 
sympathy. He had gone wrong, poor fellow, 
somehow, and she was sorry for him. 


224 


Miss Crespigny. 


“ I am sure he does not mean the hard things 
he sometimes says/’ she said to Lisbeth. “ I 
think that satirical way of speaking is more a 
bad habit than anything else. Mamma thinks 
so, too, but,” with a little guileless blush, “we 
are both so fond of him, that we cannot help 
being sorry that he has fallen into it.” 

“ It is a sort of fashion in these days,” re- 
turned Lisbeth, and she longed to add a scorch- 
ing little sneer to the brief comment, but she 
restrained it for Georgie’s sake. 

Positively such a thing had become possible. 
She, who had never restrained her impulses be- 
fore, had gradually learned to control them for 
this simple girl’s sake. On the one or two oc- 
casions, early in their acquaintance, when she 
had let her evil spirit get the better of her, the 
sudden pain and wonder in Georgie’s face had 
stung her so quickly, that she had resolved to 
hide her iniquities, at least in her presence. 
Sometimes she had even wished that she had 
been softer at heart and less selfish. It was so 
unpleasant to see herself just as she was, when 
she breathed that sweet atmosphere of which 
I have spoken. Georgie Esmond caused her to 
lose patience with Lisbeth Crespigny, upon 
more than one occasion. 

“ I am a hypocrite,” she said to herself. “ If 


Miss Crespigny . 


225 


she knew me as I am, what would she think of 
me? What would Mrs. Esmond say if she 
knew how cavalierly her 1 dear Lisbeth ’ had 
treated those three loving old souls at Pen’yl- 
lan ? I am gaining everything on false pre- 
tenses.” And one night, as she sat combing 
her hair before her mirror, she added, fiercely, 
“I am false and selfish all through; and I be- 
lieve they are teaching me to be ashamed of 
myself.” 

The fact was, these two sweet women, this 
sweet mother and daughter, were teaching her 
to be ashamed of herself. She quite writhed 
under her conviction, for she felt herself con- 
victed. Her self-love was wounded, but the 
day came when that perfect, obstinate self-con- 
fidence, which was her chief characteristic, was 
not a little shaken. 

“ I should like to be a better woman,” she 
would say, in a kind of stubborn anger. “ It 
has actually come to this, that I would be a 
better woman, if I could, but I cannot. It is 
not in me. I was not born to be a good wo- 
man.” 

The more she saw of the Esmonds, the more 
she learned. The household was such a plea- 
sant one, and was so full of the grace of home 
and kindly affection. How proud the good 


226 


Miss Crespigny . 


old colonel was of his pretty daughter. How 
he enjoyed her triumphs, and approved of the 
taste of her many admirers. How delighted 
he was to escort her to evening parties, or to 
the grandest of balls, and to spend the night 
in watching her dance, and smile, and hold her 
gay little court, entirely ignoring the fact that 
his gout was apt to be troublesome, when he 
wore tight boots instead of his huge slippers. 
It was quite enough for him that his girl was 
enjoying herself, and that people were admir- 
ing her grace, and freshness, and bloom. How 
fond the half-dozen small brothers and sisters 
were of Georgie ! and what a comfort and 
pleasure the girl was to her mother ! It was 
an education to Lisbeth Crespigny to see them 
all together. It even seemed that in time she 
fell somewhat into Georgie’s own way of caring 
for other people. How could she help caring 
for the kind hearts that beat so warmly toward 
her. Then, through acquiring, as it were, a 
habit of graciousness, she remembered things 
she had almost forgotten. If she was not born 
to be a good woman, why not try and smooth 
the fact over a little, was her cynical fancy. 
Why not give the three good spinsters at 
Pen’yllan the benefit of her new experience? 
It would be so little trouble to gladden their 


Miss Crespigny . 


22J 


hearts. So, with an impatient pity for herself 
and them, she took upon herself the task of 
writing to them oftener, and at greater length ; 
and frequently. Before her letters were com- 
pleted, she found herself touched somewhat, 
and even prompted to be a trifle more affec- 
tionate than had been her wont. A poor little 
effort to have made, but the dear, simple souls 
at Pen’yllan greeted the change with tenderest 
joy, and Aunt Millicent, and Aunt Clarissa, and 
Aunt Hetty, each shed tears of ecstasy in se- 
cret — in secret, because, to have shed them 
openly, would have been to admit to one an- 
other that they had each felt their dear Lis- 
beth’s former letters to be cold, or at least not 
absolutely all that could be desired. 

“ So like dear, dear Philip’s own child,” said 
Miss Clarissa, who was generally the family 
voice. “ You know how often I have remarked, 
sister Henrietta, that our dear Lisbeth was like 
brother Philip in every respect, even though 
at times she is, perhaps, a little more — a little 
more reserved, as it were. Her nature, I am 
sure, is most affectionate.” 

That fortunate and much-caressed young 
man, Mr. Hector Anstruthers, not only met 
Miss Crespigny frequently, but heard much of 
her. Imperfect as she may appear to us, who 


228 


Miss Crespigny . 


sit in judgment upon her, the name of her ad- 
mirers was Legion. Her intimacy with the 
Esmonds led her into very gay and distin- 
guished society, far more illustrious society 
than Mrs. Despard’s patronage had been able 
to afford her. And having this, her little pe- 
culiarities did the rest. Her immense, dusky 
eyes ; her small, pale, piquant face ; her self- 
possession ; her wit, and her numerous capa- 
bilities, attracted people wondrously. Even 
battered old beaux, who had outlived two or 
three generations of beauties, and who were 
fastidious accordingly, found an indescribable 
charm in this caustic, clever young person who 
was really not a beauty at all, if measured ac- 
cording to the usual standard. She was too 
small, too pale, too odd ; but then where could 
one find such great, changeable, dark eyes, such 
artistic taste, such masses of fine hair, such a 
voice ? 

“And, apart from that,” it was said of her, 
“there is something else. Hear her talk, by 
Jove ! See how she can manage a man, when 
she chooses to take the trouble ; see how little 
she cares for the fine speeches that would in- 
fluence other women. See her dance, hear her 
sing, and you will begin to understand her. A 
fellow can never tire of her, for she is every- 


Miss Crespigny . 229 

thing she has the whim to be, and she is every- 
thing equally well.” 

“ So she is, Heaven knows,” Hector An- 
struthers muttered, bitterly, looking across the 
room at her, as she stood talking to Colonel 
Esmond. Old Denbigh’s laudatory speech fell 
upon his ears with a significance of its own. 
She could be anything she chose so long as her 
whim lasted ; and there was the end of it. It 
all meant nothing. She was as false when she 
played her pretty part for the benefit of the 
Esmonds, young and old, as when she encour- 
aged these dandies, and ensnared them. With 
Georgie she took up the role of ingenue , that 
was all. She was bad through and through. 
He felt all this sincerely, this night, when he 
heard the men praising her, and he was savage 
accordingly. 


230 


M iss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER VIII. 

I WILL TELL YOU THE TRUTH FOR ONCE. 

But how was it, the very next night, when 
he dropped in to see Mrs. Despard, and sur- 
prised the syren, reading a letter of Miss Cla- 
rissa’s, and reading it in the strangest of moods, 
reading it with a pale face, and heavy, wet 
lashes. 

She did not pretend to hide the traces of her 
mental disturbance. She did not condescend 
to take the trouble. She evidently resented 
his appearance as untimely, but she greeted 
him with indifferent composure. 

“ Mrs. Despard will come down, as soon as 
she hears that you are here,” she said, and 
then proceeded to fold the letter, and replace 
it in its envelope ; and thus he saw that it bore 
the Pen’yllan post-mark. 

What did such a whim as this mean? he 
asked himself, impatiently, taking in at a glance 
the new expression in her face, and the heavi- 
ness of her gloomy eyes. This was not one of 
her tricks. There was no one here to see her, 
and even if there had been, what end could she 


Miss Crespigny . 


231 


serve by crying over a letter from Pen’yllan ? 
What, on earth, had she been crying for? He 
had never seen her shed a tear before in his 
life. He had often thought that such a thing 
was impossible, she was so hard. Could it be 
that she was not really so hard, after all, and 
that those three innocent old women could 
reach her heart ? But the next minute he 
laughed at the absurdity of the idea, and Lis- 
beth, chancing to raise her eyes, and coolly fix- 
ing them on his face at that moment, saw his 
smile. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she asked. 

A demon took possession of him at once. 
What if he should tell her, and see how she 
would answer? They knew each other. Why 
should they keep up this pretense of being 
nothing but ordinary acquaintances, with no 
unpleasant little drama behind ? 

“ I was thinking what an amusing blunder 
I had been on the verge of making,” he said. 

She did not answer, but still kept her eyes 
fixed upon him. 

“ I was trying to account for your sadness, 
on the same grounds that I would account for 
sadness in another woman. I was almost in- 
clined to believe that something, in your let- 
ter, had touched your heart, as it might have 
6 


232 


Miss Crespigny. 


touched Georgie Esmond’s. But I checked 
myself in time.” 

“You checked yourself in time,” she said, 
slowly. “ That was a good thing.” 

There was a brief silence, during which he 
felt that, as usual, he had gained nothing by his 
sarcasm ; and then suddenly she held out her 
mite of a hand, with Miss Clarissa’s letter in it, 
rather taking him aback. 

“Would you like to read it?” she said. 
“ Suppose you do. Aunt Clarissa is an old 
friend of yours. She speaks of you as affec- 
tionately as ever.” 

He could not comprehend the look she wore 
when she said this. It was a queer, calculating 
look, and had a meaning of its own; but it was 
a riddle he could not read. 

“Take it,” she said, seeing that he hesitated. 
“ I mean what I say. I want you to read it 
all. It may do you good.” 

So, feeling uncomfortable enough, he took it. 
And before he had read two pages, it had af- 
fected him just as Lisbeth had intended that it 
should. The worst of us must be touched by 
pure, unselfish goodness. Miss Clarissa’s sim- 
ple, affectionate outpourings to her dear Lis- 
beth were somewhat pathetic in their way. 
She was so grateful for the tenderness of their 


Miss Crespigny . 


233 


dear girl’s last letter, so sweet-tempered were 
her ready excuses for its rather late arrival, her 
kind old heart was plainly so wholly dedicated 
to the perfections of the dear girl in question, 
that by the time Anstruthers had reached the 
conclusion of the epistle he found himself inde- 
scribably softened in mind, though he really 
could not have told why. He did not think 
that he had softened toward Lisbeth herself, 
but it was true, nevertheless, that he had sof- 
tened toward her, in a secretly puzzled way. 

Lisbeth had risen from her seat, and was 
standing before him, when he handed back the 
letter, and she met his eyes just as she had 
done before. 

“ They are very fond of me, you see,” she 
said. “ They even believe that I have a real 
affection for them. They think I am capable 
of it, just as Georgie Esmond does. Poor 
Georgie ! Poor Aunt Clarissa ! Poor Aunt 
Millicent ! Poor everybody, indeed ! ” And 
she suddenly ended, and turned away from 
him, toward the fire. 

But in a minute more she spoke again. 

“ I wonder if I am capable of it,” she said. 
“ I wonder if I am.” 

He could only see her side face, but something 
in her tone roused him to a vehement reply. 


234 


Miss Crespigny . 


u God knows/’ he said, “ I do not. I do 
not understand you, and never shall.” 

She turned to him abruptly then, and let 
him see her whole face, pale, with a strange, 
excited pallor, her eyes wide, and sparkling, 
and wet. 

“ That is true,” she said. “You do not un- 
derstand. I do not understand myself, but — 
Well, I have told you lies enough before, 
when it has suited me. Now, I will tell you 
the truth, for once. Your blunder was not 
such a blunder, after all. My heart has been 
touched, just as a better woman’s might have 
been — almost as Georgie’s might have been. 
And this letter touched it — this effusion of poor 
Aunt Clarissa’s ; and that was why I was cry- 
ing when you came into the room — why I am 
crying now.” And having made this unlooked- 
for confession, she walked out of the room, 
just as Mrs. Despard came in. 

On his next visit to his friends, the Es- 
monds, Mr. Anstruthers found the pretty head 
of the lovely Miss Georgie full of a new pro- 
ject. Had he not heard the news ? She was 
going to Pen’yllan with Lisbeth, and they were 
to stay with the Misses Tregarthyn. Miss Cla- 
rissa had written the kindest letter, the dear- 
est, most affectionate letter, as affectionate as 


Miss Crespigny . 235 

if she had known her all her life. Wasn’t it 
delightful ? 

“ So much nicer, you know, than going to 
some stupid, fashionable place,” said Miss, 
Georgie, with bright eyes, and the brightest of 
fresh roses on her cheeks. “ Not that I am 
so ungrateful as to abuse poor old Brighton, 
and the rest ; but this will be something new.” 

“ And new things are always better than old 
ones,” suggested Anstruthers. 

“ Some new things always are,” answered 
Georgie, with spirit. “ New virtues, for in- 
stance, are better than old follies. New reso- 
lutions to be charitable, instead of old tenden- 
cies to be harsh. New ” 

“ I give it up ! ” interposed Hector. “ And 
I will agree with you. I always agree with 
you, Georgie,” in a softer tone. 

The poor, pretty face bloomed into blush- 
rose color, and the sweet eyes met his with in- 
nocent trouble. 

“ Not always,” said Georgie. “You don’t 
agree with me when I tell you that you are not 
as good as you ought to be — as you might be, 
if you would try.” 

“ Am I such a bad fellow, then ? ” drawing 
nearer to her. “ Ah, Georgie! etc., etc. ” un- 

til, in fact, he wandered off in spite of himself, 


230 


Miss Crespigny. 


into that most dangerous ground, of which I 
have already spoken. 

Actually, within the last few days, the idea 
had occurred to him, that, perhaps — possibly, 
just possibly — he would not be going so far 
wrong, if he let himself drift into a gentle pas- 
sion for Georgie. Perhaps, after all, he could 
give her a better love than he had ever given 
to Lisbeth Crespigny. It would be a quieter 
love. Was not a man’s second love always 
quieter than the first, and at the same time 
was it not always more endurable and deep ? 
But perhaps he could make it a love worthy of 
her. Mind you, he was not shallow or coarse 
enough to think that anything would do ; any 
mock sentiment, any semblance of affection. 
It was only that he longed to anchor himself 
somehow, and admired and trusted this warm- 
souled young creature so earnestly, that he in- 
stinctively turned toward her. She was far 
too good for him, he told himself, and it was 
only her goodness that could help her to over- 
look his many faults ; but perhaps she would 
overlook them ; and perhaps, in time, out of 
the ashes of that wretched passion of his youth, 
might arise a phoenix, fair enough to be worthy 
of her womanhood. 

So he was something more tender, and so his 


Miss Crespigny . 


237 


new tenderness showed itself in his handsome 
face, and in a certain regret that he was to 
lose what Pen’yllan and the Misses Tregarthyn 
were to gain. 

“ Will you let me come to see you?” he 
asked, at last. “ Will you ” 

But there he stopped, remembering Lisbeth. 
How would she like such a plan? 

“ Why should you not? ” said Georgie, with 
a pleased blush. “ I have heard you say that 
the Misses Tregarthyn have asked you again 
and again. And they seem so fond of you ; 
and I am sure mamma and papa would be quite 
glad if you would run down and look at us, and 
then run back and tell them all the news. And 
as to Lisbeth, Lisbeth never objects to any- 
thing. I think she likes you well enough when 
you are good. Come, by all means.” And she 
seemed to regard his proposition as so natural 
and pleasant, that he had no alternative but to 
profess to regard it as such himself ; and so it 
was agreed upon, that, in course of time, he 
should follow them to Pen’yllan. 


238 


Miss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER IX. 

WE MUST ALWAYS BE TRUE. 

INDEED, he drifted so far this evening, that 
there is no knowing how sad a story this of 
mine might have been, if the fates had not 
been kinder to pretty Georgie Esmond than 
they are to the generality of people. Surely it 
must have been because she deserved some- 
thing better than the fortune of a disappointed 
woman, that chance interposed in her behalf 
before she went to sleep that night. 

She had enjoyed herself very much during 
Hector’s visit. She had sung her sweetest 
songs, and had been in the brightest of good 
spirits. Inded, she had been very happy, and 
perhaps had felt her innocent, warm heart 
stirred a little, once or twice, by the young 
man’s tender speeches, though she was very 
far from being in the frame of mind to analyze 
the reasons for her gentle pleasure. 

When her visitor had taken his departure, 
she came to the colonel’s arm-chair, and pos- 
sibly feeling somewhat conscience-stricken, be- 
cause she had left “ papa ” to his own resources 


Miss Crespigny. 


2 39 


for so long a time, she applied herself to the task 
of petting him in her most seductive manner. 

“ You are very quiet, papa,” she said, settling 
herself upon a footstool, at his side. “ I hope 
you are not going to have the gout again, dar- 
ling. Mamma, what shall we do with him, if 
he insists on having the gout, when I am going 
to Pen’yllan ? I shall have to stay at home, 
and so will Lisbeth. He cannot possibly dis- 
pense with us, when he has the gout.” 

“ But I am not going to have the gout,” pro- 
tested the colonel, stoutly. “ I am quite well, 
my dear ; but the fact is — the fact is, I was 
thinking of a discovery I made this evening — a 
discovery about Anstruthers.” 

“ Hector?” exclaimed Georgie, half-uncon- 
sciously, and then turned her bright eyes upon 
the shining fender. 

“Yes,” proceeded Colonel Esmond. “Hec- 
tor himself. I believe I have found out what 
has changed him so — so deucedly, not to put 
too fine a point upon it — during the last four 
or five years. You remember what a frank, 
warm-hearted lad he was, at three-and-twenty, 
Jennie? ” to Mrs. Esmond. 

“ Papa,” interposed Georgie, “ do you really 
think he has changed for the worse ? In his 
heart, I mean.” 


240 


Miss Crespigny . 


“ He has not changed for the better/' an- 
swered the colonel. “ But his heart is all right, 
my dear." 

“ I am sure/’ said Georgie, a little piteously. 
“ I am sure he is good at heart." 

“ Of coui *se he is," said the colonel. “ But 
he has altered very much, in many respects. 
And Jennie, my dear, I have discovered that 
the trouble was the one you hinted at, in the 
beginning. There was a woman in the case. 
A woman who treated him shamefully." 

“ She must have been very heartless," said 
Georgie. “ Poor Hector ! " 

The colonel warmed up. 

“ She was shamefully heartless, she was dis- 
gracefully, unnaturally heartless ! Such cold- 
blooded, selfish cruelty would have been unnat- 
ural in a mature woman, and she was nothing 
more than a school-girl, a mere child. I con- 
gratulate myself that I did not learn her name. 
The man who told me the story had not heard 
it. If I knew it, and should ever chance to 
meet her, by George ! " with virtuous indigna- 
tion, “ I don’t see how a man of honor could 
remain in the same room with such a woman." 

And then he poured out what he had heard 
of the story, and an unpleasant enough sound 
it had, when related with all the additional 


Miss Crespigny . 


241 


coloring confidential report had given it. It 
was bad enough to begin with, but it was worse 
for having passed through the hands of the 
men who had gathered it together, by scraps, 
and odds, and ends, and joined it as they 
thought best. 

“ And the worst of it is,” ended Colonel 
Esmond, “ that he has not lived it down, as he 
fancies he has done. At least there are those 
who think so. It is said the girl is here in 
town now, and though they are not friends, 
Anstruthers cannot keep away from her alto- 
gether, and is always most savage and reckless 
when he has seen her.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said Georgie, in a low, quiet 
voice. “ Poor Hector ! ” 

But she did not look up at any one, as she 
spoke. Indeed she had not looked up, even 
once, during the time in which this unpleasant 
story had been told. 

Having heard it, she confronted it very sen- 
sibly. When, indeed, was she not sweet and 
sensible? While she listened, a hundred past 
incidents rushed back upon her. She remem- 
bered things she had heard Hector say, and 
things she had seen him do ; she remembered 
certain restless moods of his, certain desperate 
whims and fancies, and she began to compre- 


242 


Miss Crespigny. 


bend what their meaning was. Her vague fan- 
cies of his unhappiness found a firm foundation. 
He was wretched, and broken in faith, because 
this cruel girl had robbed him of his honest 
belief in love, and truth, and goodness. Ah, 
poor Hector ! She did not say very much 
while the colonel and* Mrs. Esmond discussed 
the matter, but she was thinking very deeply, 
and when she bade them good night, and went 
up to her room, there was a sad sort of thought- 
fulness in her face. 

She did not begin to undress at once, but 
sat down by her toilet table, and rested her 
fresh cheek on her hand. 

“I wonder who it was?” she said, softly. 
“ Who could it be ? Whom did he know when 
he was three-and-twenty ? ” 

Surely some fate guided her eyes, just at 
that moment, guided them to the small, half- 
opened note, lying at her elbow ; a note so 
opened that the signature alone presented itself 
to her glance. “ Your affectionate Lisbeth.” 
She gave a little start, and then flushed up 
with a queer agitation. 

“ Lisbeth ! ” she said,* “ Lisbeth ! ” And 
then, with quite a self-reproach in her tone, 
“Oh, no! Not Lisbeth. How could I say it? 
Not Lisbeth ! ” She put out her hand and 


Miss Crespigny . 


^43 


took up the note, protestingly. “ I could not 
bear to think it,” she said. “ It might be any 
one else, but not Lisbeth.” And yet the next 
minute a new thought forced itself upon her, a 
memory of some words of Lisbeth’s own. 

“ We were nothing but a couple of children 
when we met at Pen’yllan,” that young lady 
had said, a few days before, a trifle cavalierly. 
“He was only three-and-twenty, and as for 
me, what was I but a child, a school-girl, not 
much more than sixteen.” 

“ But,” protested Georgie, her eyes shining 
piteously, and the moisture forcing itself into 
them, “ but it might not have been she ; and if 
it was Lisbeth he loved, the story may have 
been exaggerated. Such stories always are ; 
and if any part of it is true, she was so young, 
and did not know what she was doing. It was 
not half so wrong in Lisbeth as it would have 
been in me, who have had mamma all my life 
to teach me the difference between rieht and 

<T"> 

wrong. She had nobody but the Misses Tre- 
garthyn ; and people who are good are not 
always wise.” 

She was not very wise herself, poor, loving, 
little soul ! At least she was not worldly wise. 
She could not bear the thought of connecting 
that cruel story with her most precious Lis- 


244 


Miss Crespigny. 


beth, in whom she had never yet found a fault. 
And if it must be connected with her, what 
excuses might there not be ! Oh, she was so 
sure that it was an exaggerated story, and that, 
if the truth were known, Lisbeth’s fault had 
only risen out of Lisbeth’s youth and inno- 
cence. She was so disturbed abour her friend, 
that it was quite a longtime before she remem- 
bered that she had a quiet little pain of her 
own to contend with, only the ghost of a pain 
as yet, but a ghost which, but for this timely 
check, might have been very much harder to 
deal with than it was. 

“ I think,” she said, at last, blushing a little at 
the sound of her own words, “ I think that, per- 
haps, I was beginning to care for Hector more 
than for any one else ; and I am glad that papa 
told me this, before — before it was too late. 
I think I should have been more sorry, after 
a little time, than I am now; and I ought to 
be thankful. If I did not mean to be sensible, 
instead of sentimental, perhaps I should try 
to believe that what is said is not true, and 
that he has really lived his trouble down ; but 
I would rather be sensible, and believe that he 
only means to think of me as his friend, as he 
has done all his life. I must think that,” she 
thought, eagerly. “ I must remember it al- 


Miss Crespigny. 


245 


ways, when he is with me. It would be best. 
And if it is Lisbeth he has loved, and he loves 
her yet, I — I must try to help them to forgive 
each other.” And here she bent her face, and 
as she touched the note lightly with her lips, a 
bright drop, like a jewel, fell upon the paper. 
“We must always be true to each other,” she 
whispered, tremulously. “ This would be a sad 
world if people were not true to each other, 
and ready to make little sacrifices for the sake 
of those they love.” 

And thus it was that the innocent white rose 
of love, just turning to the sun, folded its fresh 
petals, and became a bud again. It was better 
as it was, much better that it should be a bud 
for a longer time, than that it should bloom 
too early, and lose its too lavish beauty before 
the perfect summer came. 


246 


Miss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER X. 

pen’yllan. 

Emulating the example of the Misses Tre- 
garthyn, Pen’yllan had put on its best dress to 
grace the occasion of the arrival of the visitors. 
As they drove from the little railway station, 
Lisbeth was of the opinion that she had never 
seen the sea so blue, and cool, and sparkling, 
the sands so silver white, or the village so pic- 
turesque. The truth was, the sight of it quite 
subdued her, and invested her with one of her 
softest and most charitable moods. 

“ I did not know it was so pretty,” she said. 
“ I believe we shall enjoy ourselves, Georgie.” 

Georgie was enraptured. Everything pleased 
her. The sea, the beach, the sky, the quaint, 
white cottages, the bare-legged children, the old 
Welsh women in their steeple hats and woollen 
petticoats. The up-hill streets of the village 
were delighful ; the little bandbox of a railway 
station was incomparable. She had been rather 
pale and tired during the journey, but as soon 
as she set her feet upon the platform at Pen’yl- 
lan, her pallor and fatigue disappeared. The 


Miss Crespigny. 


247 


fresh breeze from the sea tinged her cheeks, 
and made her eyes sparkle, and she was in the 
best of good spirits. 

“ I never saw such a dear little place in my 

life,” she said, delightedly. “ Enjoy ourselves, 

Lisbeth ? Why, as you know, I feel just as I 

used to when we were all children, and went to 

the sea-side with mamma and the nurses, and 

dug caves in the sand with wooden spades, and 

built forts, and looked for shells. I am going 

to make friends with those little urchins on the 

beach to-morrow, and ask them to play with 
> > 

me. 

Behold the Tregarthyn household, arrayed in 
all its modest splendor, when the carriage drove 
up to the garden gate. Behold the neatest of 
young handmaidens, brisk and blue-eyed, and 
the smallest of pages standing ready to assist 
with the boxes, and admire the young ladies 
with an exceeding admiration. Behold, also, 
the three Misses Tregarthyn, in the trimmest 
of “ company ” dresses, and in such a state of 
affectionate tremor and excitement, that they 
kissed their dear Lisbeth on the tip of the nose 
by one consent, instead of bestowing their de- 
lighted caresses upon her lips. 

“ So very happy to see you, my love,” said 
Miss Clarissa, squeezing Georgie’s hand, as she 


24 & 


Miss Crespigny . 


led the way into the parlor. “ Our dear Lis- 
beth’s friend, I hope you are not tired, and 
that you left your mamma and papa quite well. 
Our dear Lisbeth is so tenderly attached to 
your mamma and papa, that if such a thing 
were possible, we should be quite jealous.” 

“ They are quite as much attached to her, I 
can assure you,” answered Georgie, in her pret- 
ty, earnest way. “ Indeed, we all are, Miss 
Clarissa. Everybody is fond of Lisbeth.” And 
thereby rendered her position as a favorite 
secure at once. 

Indeed, she found her way to the heart of 
the spinster household in an incredibly short 
space of time. Miss Millicent, and Miss Hetty, 
and Miss Clarissa were charmed with her. Her 
pretty face and figure, her girlish gayety, her 
readiness to admire and enjoy everything, were 
attractions enough to enchant any spinster trio, 
even if she had not possessed that still greater 
charm of being Lisbeth’s dearest friend. 

The two girls shared Lisbeth’s old room to- 
gether; a cool nest of a place, with white drape- 
ries, and quaint ornaments, and all the child 
Lisbeth’s treasures, of land and sea, still kept 
in their original places. 

“ It looks exactly as it did when I went away 
with Mrs. Despard,” said Lisbeth, glancing 


Miss Crespigny . 


249 


round, with a sigh, which meant she scarce 
knew what. “ I gathered that sea-weed when 
I was fourteen, and I was always engaged in 
difficulties with the cooks, because I would bring 
in more shells than I wanted*, and leave piles 
of them in the kitchen. Aunt Clarissa sent 
one woman away because we had a row, and 
she said I was ‘ a imperent young minx, alius 
litterin’ the place with my rubbidge.’ How 
the dear old souls did spoil me. If I had 
brought a whale into the drawing-room, they 
would have regretted, but never resented it. 
I had my own way often enough when I ought 
to have had my ears boxed.” 

“You must have been very happy in their 
loving you so,” said Georgie, who had drawn a 
low wicker chair to the open window, and was 
enjoying the moonlight and the sea. 

“You would have been,” returned Lisbeth, 
drawing up chair number two. “ And you 
would have behaved yourself better than I did. 
I was an ill-conditioned young person, even in 
those days.” 

They were both silent for a while after this. 
There was a lovely view from the window, and 
all was so still that neither cared to stir for a 
few moments. Then the thoughtfulness on 
Georgie’s face attracted Lisbeth’s attention. 


250 


M iss Crespigny . 


“ I should like to know,” she said, “ what 
you are thinking about ? ” 

The girl drew a positively ecstatic little sigh. 
“ I was thinking how sweet and quiet every- 
thing looked,” she said, innocently; “and how 
much happier I am.” 

“Happier?” exclaimed Lisbeth. “When 
were you unhappy, Georgie ? ” 

The surprise in her tone brought Georgie to 
a recognition of what her words had uncon- 
sciously implied. She found herself blushing, 
and wondering at her own simplicity. She had 
not meant to say so much. She could not 
comprehend why she should have said any- 
thing of that kind at ah. 

“ It is strange enough to hear that you can 
be made happier than you always seem to be,” 
said Lisbeth. “ You speak as if — ” And then, 
her quick eye taking in the girl’s trepidation, 
she stopped short. “ You never had a trouble, 
Georgie?” she added, in a voice very few of 
her friends would have known ; it was so soft. 

“No,” said Georgie. “Oh, no, Lisbeth! 
Not a trouble, exactly; not a trouble at all, 
indeed ; only — ” And suddenly she turned 
her bright, appealing eyes to Lisbeth’s face. 
“ I don’t know why I said it,” she said. “ It 
was nothing real, Lisbeth, or else I am sure 


Miss Crespigny. 


251 


you would have known. But it — Well, I 
might have had a trouble, and I was saved from 
it, and I am glad, and — thankful.” And, to 
Miss Crespigny’s surprise, she bent forward, 
and kissed her softly on the cheek. 

Lisbeth asked her no questions. She was 
not fond of asking questions, and she was a 
young person of delicacy and tact, when she 
was in an affectionate mood. She was too par- 
tial to Georgie to wish to force her into telling 
her little secrets. But a certain thought flashed 
through her mind, as she sat with her eyes rest- 
ing on the sea. 

“ She is the sort of girl,” she said, sharply, 
to herself, “who would be likely to have no 
trouble but a love trouble. Who has been 
making love to her, or rather, who, among 
all her admirers, would be likely to touch her 
heart ? ” 

But this mental problem was by no means 
easy to solve. There were so many men who 
admired Georgie Esmond, and such a large pro- 
portion of them were men whom any girl might 
have loved. 

It was one of Lisbeth’s chief wonders, that 
Georgie, who was so soft of heart, and ready 
with affection, should have held her own so 
long against so agreeable a multitude of adorers. 


252 


Miss Crespigny. 


Certainly, if she had lived through any little 
romance, she had kept her secret well. She 
did not look like a love-lorn young lady when 
she came down, the next morning, fresh and 
rosy, and prepared to explore Pen’yllan in all 
its fastnesses. It was exhilarating to see her ; 
and the Misses Tregarthyn were delighted be- 
yond bounds. She made a pilgrimage through 
half the up-and-down-hill little streets in the 
village, and, before dinner, had managed to drag 
Lisbeth a mile along the shore, against a stiff 
breeze, which blew their long, loose hair about, 
and tinted their cheeks brilliantly. Lisbeth 
followed her with an amused wonder at her en- 
thusiasm, mingled with discontent at her own 
indifference. It was she who ought to have 
been in raptures, and she was not in raptures 
at all. Had she no natural feeling whatever ? 
Any other woman would have felt a sentimental 
tenderness for the place which had been her 
earliest home. 

They had found a comfortable nook behind 
a cluster of sheltering rocks, and were sitting 
on the sand, when Lisbeth arrived at this stage 
of thought. The place was an old haunt of 
hers, and Hector Anstruthers had often fol- 
lowed her there in their boy and girl days ; 
and the sight of the familiar stretch of sea and 


Miss Crespigny . 


253 


sand irritated her somehow. She picked up a 
shell, and sent it skimming away toward the 
water, with an impatient gesture. 

“ Georgie,” she said, “ I should like to know 
what you see in Pen’yilan to please you so/’ 

“ Everything,” said Georgie. “ And then, 
somehow, I seem to know it. I think its chief 
attraction is, that you lived here so long.” 
Lisbeth picked up another shell, and sent it 
skimming after the other. 

“ What a girl you are!” she said. “It is 
always your love and your heart that are 
touched. You are all heart. You love peo- 
ple, and you love everything that belongs to 
them ; their homes, their belongings, their re- 
lations. It is not so with me ; it never was. 
You are like what Hector Anstruthers was, 
when I first knew him. Bah ! ” with a shrug 
of his shoulders. “ How fond the foolish fel- 
low was of Aunt Hetty, and Aunt Millicent, 
and Aunt Clarissa.” 

Her tongue had slipped, just as Georgie’s 
had done the night before. For the moment 
she forgot herself entirely, and only remem- 
bered that old sentimental affection of her 
boyish lover ; that affection for her spinster 
relatives, which, in the past, had impressed her 
as being half troublesome and half absurd. 


254 


Miss Crespigny. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A CONFESSION. 

GEORGIE turned to her, taking sudden cour- 
age. 

“ Lisbeth,” she said, “you never told me 
much about your acquaintance with Hector 
Anstruthers. I wonder how it was. You 
knew him very well, it seems.” 

“ I wish,” broke out Lisbeth, almost angrily, 
“ that I had never known him at all.” 

The faithful heart, beating in the breast of 
the girl at her side, leaped nervously. 

“ It was Lisbeth,” said she to herself. “ It 
was Lisbeth.” 

“ I wish,” repeated Lisbeth, frowning at the 
sea, “ that I had never seen him.” 

“ Why? ” was Georgie’s quiet question. 

“ Because — because it was a bad thing for 
us both,” in greater impatience than ever. 

Georgie looked up at her sadly. 

“Why, again?” she ventured, in her soft 
voice. She could not help it. 

But for a moment Lisbeth did not answer. 


Miss Crespigny . 


255 


She had risen, and stood leaning against the 
rock, a queer look on her face, a queer darken- 
ing in her eyes. At length she broke into a 
little, hard laugh, as if she meant to defy her- 
self to be emotional. 

“ How horror-stricken you would be, if I 
were to tell you why,” she said. 

“ Does that mean,” Georgie put it to her 
“ that you were unkind to him ? ” 

“It means,” was her strange reply — “it 
means that it was I who ruined his life for- 
ever.” 

She made the confession fairly, in spite of 
herself. And she was emotional — vehement. 
She could not stand this innocent Georgie, and 
her beliefs any longer. She had been slowly 
approaching this mood for months, and now 
every inner and outer influence seemed to com- 
bine against her natural stubborn secretive- 
ness. Perhaps Pen’ylian, the sea, the shore, 
the sky, helped her on to the end. At any 
rate, she must tell the truth this once, and hear 
what this innocent Georgie would say to it. 

“ I ruined his life for him,” she repeated. 
“ I broke his faith. I believe I am to blame 
for every evil change the last few years have 
wrought in him. I, myself — Lisbeth. Do you 
hear, Georgie?” 


256 


Miss Crespigny . 


The face under Georgie’s straw hat was 
rather pale, but it was not horror-stricken. 

“You were too young/’ she faltered, “to 
understand.” 

“Too young?” echoed Lisbeth. “I never 
was young in my life. I was born old. I 
was born a woman, and I was born cold and 
hard. That was it. If I had been like other 
girls, he would have touched my heart, after 
he had touched my vanity, or he might 
even have touched my heart first. You 
would have loved him with all your soul. 
Are you willing to hear the whole history, 
Georgie ? ” 

“ Quite willing. Only,” and she raised her 
face with a bright, resolute, affectionate look, 
“ you cannot make me think harshly of you. 
So, don’t try, Lisbeth.” 

Lisbeth regarded her with an entirely new 
expression, which had, nevertheless, a shade of 
her old wonder in it. 

“ I really do not believe I could,” she said. 
“ You are very hard to deal with ; at least I find 
it hard to deal with you. You are a new ex- 
perience. If there was just a little flavor of in- 
sincerity or uncharitableness in you, if you 
would be false to your beliefs now and then, 
I should know what to do ; but, as it is, you 


Miss Crespigny . 257 

are perplexing. Notwithstanding, here comes 
the story.” 

She put her hands behind her, and bracing 
herself against the rock, told it from beginning 
to end, in her coolest, most daring way, even 
with a half-defiant air. If she had been telling 
some one else’s story, she could not have been 
more caustic and unsparing, more determined 
to soften no harsh outline, or smooth over any- 
thing. She set the girl Lisbeth before her lis- 
tener, just as Lisbeth Crespigny at seventeen 
had been. Selfish, callous, shallow, and deep, at 
once : restless, ungrateful, a half-ripe coquette, 
who, notwithstanding her crudeness, was yet 
far too ripe for her age. She pictured the hon- 
est, boyish young fellow, who had fallen victim 
to her immature fascinations, simply because 
he was too guileless and romantic to see in 
any woman anything but a goddess. She de- 
scribed his sincerity, his unselfish willingness to 
bear her caprices, and see no wrong in them ; 
his lavish affection for every thing and every 
one who shared his love for her ; his readiness 
to believe, his tardiness to doubt and see her 
as she really was; the open-hearted faith which 
had made the awakening so much harder to 
bear, when it forced itself upon him at last. 
She left out the recital of no petty wrong she 


258 


Miss Crespigny. 


had done him, and no small tyranny or indig- 
nity she had made him feel. She told the 
whole story, in fact, as she saw it now ; not 
as she had seen it in that shallow, self-ruled 
girlhood ; and when she had touched upon 
everything, and ended with that last scene in 
the garden, among Aunt Clarissa’s roses, she 
stopped. 

And there was a silence. 

Georgie’s eyelashes were wet, and so were 
her cheeks. A tear or so stained her pink 
cravat. It was so sorrowful. Poor Hector 
again ! And then, of course, poor Lisbeth ! 
By her own showing, Lisbeth deserved no pity ; 
but the warm young heart gave her pity 
enough, and to spare. Something had been 
wrong somewhere. Indeed, it seemed as if 
everything had been wrong, but — Poor Lis- 
beth ! She was so fond of Lisbeth herself, and 
mamma was so fond of her, and the Misses Tre- 
garthyn. So many people were fond of Lis- 
beth. 

And then Lisbeth’s voice startled her. A 
new voice, tremulous and as if her mood was a 
sore and restive one. 

“ You are crying, of course, Georgie ? I knew 
you would.” 

“ I have been crying.” 


Miss Crespigny . 259 

Pause enough to allow of a struggle, and 
then — 

“ Well, since you are crying, I suppose I may 
cry, too. It is queer enough that I should cry, 
but — ” And to Georgie’s amazement and trou- 
ble, Lisbeth put her hand up on the rough rock, 
and laid her face against it. 

“ Lisbeth ! ” cried the girl. 

“ Wait a moment,” said Lisbeth. “ I don’t 
know what has come over me. It is a new 
thing for me. I — I ” 

It was a new thing, indeed, and it did not 
•last very long. When she raised her head, and 
turned again, her eyelashes were wet, too, and 
she was even pale. 

“ Ah, Lisbeth!” said Georgie, pitying her, 
“ you are sorry.” 

Lisbeth smiled, faintly. 

“ I never was sorry before for anything I 
had done; never, in my life,” she answered. 
“ I have had a theory that people should take 
care of themselves, as I did. But now — 
Well, I suppose I am sorry — for Hector An- 
struthers ; and perhaps a little for myself. No 
one will offer me such an unreasoning love 
again. Very few women are offered such a 
love once ; but I always got more than my 
share of everything. It is my way. I suppose 


26 o 


Miss Crespigny . 


I was born under a lucky star. Georgie, what 
do you think of me now?” 

Georgie got up, and kissed her, in a most 
earnest fashion. 

“ What ? ” cried Lisbeth, with a dubious 
smile. “You can’t be moral, and improving, 
and sanctimonious, even now. Think what an 
eloquent lecture you might read me ! I have 
sometimes thou ght I was merely created to 
point a moral, or adorn a tale ! See how reck- 
less I am, after all. You ought to be down on 
me, Georgie. It is your duty, as a well-trained 
young woman of the period.” 

“Then,” said Georgie, “ I can’t do my duty. 
You are so different from other people. How 
can I pretend to understand what has made 
you do things that other people are not 
tempted to do ? And then you know how 
fond I am of you, Lisbeth.” 

“You are a good, pure little soul!” cried 
Lisbeth, her pale face flushing excitedly. “And 
the world is a thousand times better for your 
being in it. I am better myself, and Heaven 
knows I need something to make me better. 
Llere, let me take hold of your hand, and Jet 
us go home.” 

And as they turned homeward, on the beach, 
hand-in-hand, like a couple of children, Georgie 


Miss Crespigny . 


261 

saw that there were tears in the inconsistent 
creature’s eyes again. 

They did not say much upon the subject 
after this. That wise young woman, Miss Es- 
mond, felt that it was a subject of far too deli- 
cate a nature to be lightly touched upon. It 
had been Lisbeth’s secret so long, that, even 
after this confidence, she could not help regard- 
ing it as Lisbeth’s secret still. Perhaps she 
felt in private that there were certain little con- 
fidences of her own, which she would scarcely 
be willing even for Lisbeth to refer to, as if 
they were her own property. For instance, 
that accidental confession, made in the bed- 
room, on the first night they had spent in it 
together. How glad she had been that Lis- 
beth had let it pass, as if she had not noticed 
it very particularly. But though the subject 
was not discussed, is it to be supposed that it 
was not brought to mind at all, but was buried 
in oblivion ? Certainly not. While that terse 
young woman, Miss Esmond, said little, she 
thought much, and deeply. She had constant- 
ly before her a problem, which she was very 
anxious to work out. Was it not possible that 
these two interesting beings might be brought 
to — might be induced to — well, not to put too 
fine a point upon it — to think better of each 


262 


Miss Crespigny. 


other, and the unfortunate past, and the world 
generally? Would it not be dreadful to think 
that so much poetic material had been lost? 
That these two who might have been so happy, 
should drift entirely apart, and leave their ro- 
mance incomplete, as the most unsatisfactory 
of novels? Probably, having sensibly, even if 
with a little pang, given up that bud of a ro- 
mance of her own, the girl felt the need of 
some loving plot to occupy her mind ; and if 
so, it was quite natural and very charming, that 
she should turn to her friend. Hector would 
make his appearance one of these fine days, 
and then, perhaps, Pen’yllan, and its old fami- 
liar scenes, would soften his heart, as she had 
an idea they had softened Lisbeth’s. Surely, 
old memories would touch him tenderly, and 
make him more ready to forgive his injuries. 
In fact, Miss Georgie painted for herself some 
very pretty mental pictures, in which the fig- 
ures of Lisbeth and her ex-lover were always 
the prominent features. Lisbeth in the tryst- 
ing-place, the sea-breeze blowing her beautiful 
hair about, and coloring her pale face ; that 
queer mist of tears in her mysterious eyes. 
Lisbeth, in one of her soft moods, making 
those strange, restive, unexpected speeches, 
which were so fascinating, because so unlooked- 


Miss Crespigny . 


263 


for, and Hector Anstruthers standing by, and 
listening. Such interesting little scenes as 
these she imagined, and, having imagined them, 
positively drew some consolation from their 
phantom existence. 


264 


Miss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER XII. 

A V I S I T O R . 

In the meantime, however, she made he self 
very agreeable and attractive to her hostesses, 
and enjoyed Pen’yllan very much, in a girlish 
way. She explored the tiny village, and the 
rude shore. She made friends with fishermen, 
and their wives, and sturdy children. She won 
admiration on every side by her pretty interest 
in everything appertaining to the Pen’yllanites. 
She took long walks on the sands, and brought 
home shells, and sea-weed, and pebbles, with 
such honest delight in any trifling rarity, as 
made Lisbeth look on and feel restless, and the 
Misses Tregarthyn grow young again, unitedly. 

“ I wish, my dear,” said Miss Clarissa to 
Lisbeth, “ that you enjoyed yourself as much ; 
but — but I am afraid you do not. I am afraid 
you find Pen’yllan rather dull.” 

“ I never found Pen’yllan so pleasant in my 
life before, but you know I am not like Georgie,” 
said Lisbeth. “ Pen’yllan is all right, Aunt 
Clarissa, and I enjoy myself here more than I 
should anywhere else.” 


Miss Crespigny . 


265 


“ I am glad to hear you say that, my love,” 
Miss Clarissa faltered. “ Sometimes, do you 
know, I have really fancied that you were not 
quite — quite happy ? ” 

Lisbeth got up from her chair, and came to 
the window, her incomprehensible eyes reach- 
ing far out to sea. 

“ Happy ! ” she echoed, absently. “ Is an}^- 
body happy? What a conundrum to answer? 
As for me, I give it up.” 

She gave up a good many things during these 
weeks at Pen'yllan. She was wont to be fond 
of a certain cool class of metaphysics, but 
somehow things of that order seemed to slip 
from her grasp. She was not so sure of her 
self as she had been — not so obstinately com- 
placent. Indeed, she had never been so ill- 
satisfied and out of patience with Lisbeth Cres- 
pigny in her life. 

In the course of a week or so, Hector Anstru- 
thers came, as he had promised. One quiet 
afternoon, Miss Millicent, who was sitting at the 
window, looked out into the garden, with a sud- 
den expression of surprise. 

“ Sister Clarissa ! ” she exclaimed, “ Miss Es- 
mond, there is a gentleman coming up the 
walk ; a young gentleman, and really a very 
handsome one. Do either of you know him ? 


266 Miss Crespigny. 

Dear me, his face seems very familiar. It can't 
be ” 

Georgie ran to the window, and the next 
minute was waving her kind little hand to the 
individual in question, and smiling, and nod- 
ding her head. 

“ You ought to know him, Miss Tregarthyn," 
she said. “It is Mr. Hector Anstruthers.” 

“ Oh ! " broke forth Miss Clarissa, in some 
distress. 

“And Lisbeth is here! I do hope, sister 
Millicent ” 

“He saw Lisbeth very often when she was at 
home," explained Georgie, feeling very guilty, 
and extremely fearful of committing herself. 
“ I know Lisbeth did not like him very well 
at first, but he was one of Mrs. Despard’s favor- 
ites, and — he is a sort of cousin of mine." 

It was a great relief to the Misses Tregar- 
thyn, this piece of news. They remembered 
various unpleasant little episodes of the past 
too well, to have confronted serenely the re- 
responsibility of bringing their dear Lisbeth 
face to face with this young man again. In- 
deed, Miss Millicent had turned pale, and Miss 
Clarissa had lost her breath at the mere thought 
of it. They had hardly recovered themselves, 
when the visitor was handed into the room. 


Miss Crcspigny. 


267 


But, of course, what Miss Esmond said must 
be correct, and, under such circumstances, how 
delightful it would be to welcome this genius 
and hero to Pen’yllan once more. 

They had heard wondrous reports of his ca- 
reer from chance visitors, even though the be- 
loved Lisbeth had been so reticent. They had 
heard of his good fortune, his good looks, his 
talent, his popularity, and, remembering the 
fair-haired, blue-eyed young fellow, whom Lis- 
beth had snubbed so persistently, they had 
wondered among themselves if all they heard 
could possibly be true. But here was the ad- 
mirable Crichton to speak for himself, and so 
changed was his appearance, so imposing his 
air, so amiable his condescension, that each 
gentle spinster owned in secret that really, 
after all, it seemed probable that rumor, for 
once, had not exaggerated. And it is not to 
be denied that Mr. Hector Anstruthers was 
shown to an advantage upon this occasion. 
On his way from the small bandbox of a sta- 
tion, he had been reminded of many a little 
incident in that far-distant past, which had 
somehow or other warmed his heart toward 
these good, simple souls. They had been true 
and kind, at least. They had never failed him 
from first to last ; they had pitied and tried to 


268 


Miss Crespigny . 


comfort him when his fool’s paradise had been 
so rudely broken into. He remembered how 
Miss Clarissa had stolen down into the garden, 
that last, bitter night, and finding him lying 
full length, face downward, upon the dewy 
grass, among the roses, had bent over him, and 
put her timid hand upon his shoulder, and cried 
silently, as she tried to find words with which 
she could console him, and still be loyal to her 
faithful affection for that wretched girl. He 
remembered, too, how fiercely he had answered 
her, like a passionate young cub as he was ; 
telling her to leave him alone, and let him fight 
it out with himself and the devil, for he had 
had enough of women. She had not been 
offended, good little Miss Clarissa, though she 
had been dreadfully shocked and troubled. 
She had cried more than ever, and patted his 
sleeve, and begged him to think of his dear 
mother, and forgive — forgive ; ending by sob- 
bing into her dainty handkerchief. 

So, when he entered the pretty parlor, and 
saw this kind friend standing near Georgie, a 
trifle tremulous and agitated at the sudden sight 
of him, everything but his memory of what a 
true, generous little soul she was, slipped out of 
his mind, and he actually blushed with pleasure. 

“ My dear Miss Clarissa ! ” he said ; and, with 


Miss Crespigny . 


269 

a sudden frank boyishness, such as Georgie had 
never seen him give way to before, he put one 
strong young arm about her, and kissed her 
withered cheek twice. 

“ My dear boy ! ” said Miss Clarissa. A mo- 
ment before she had been on the verge of mak- 
ing h im her best bow, and calling him “ Mr. 
Anstruthers.” “ How pleasant it is to see 
you ! How pleasant it is ! ** 

The bri ghtest of sweet smiles dimpled Miss 
Georgie’s mouth. How good, and honest, and 
unaffected he was, after all ! How kind at 
heart! How she wished that Lisbeth could 
have seen him just then ! Indeed, she found 
it necessary to hold herself very bravely in 
check for a moment or so, for fear she should 
be tempted to give way to any weak impulse 
of feeling ; he seemed so worthy to be admired 
and loved. 

But Lisbeth was not in the house. No one 
knew where she was, exactly. Lately she had 
indulged in the habit of taking even longer 
walks than Georgie’s, and often lonely ones. 
Sometimes, in the morning, or afternoon, they 
would miss her for an hour or so, and she would 
come back rather fagged, and well blown about, 
and at such times it always appeared that she 
had been for a walk. 


270 


Miss Crcspigny . 


“ For the good of my health,” she once said 
to Georgie. “ I find it benefits me, physical- 
ly and morally. Pen’yllan is a queer place, 
and is productive of queer effects upon peo- 
ple.” 

Among other things, Georgie discovered that 
she, too, sometimes talked to the children who 
played upon the sands, and that she had her 
favorites, to whom shediad once or twice even 
condescended to tell certain tales of fairies and 
mermaids. When Georgie mentioned this 
discovery, she laughed and colored, as if half 
ashamed of herself, and explained the matter 
in her usual style. 

“ The fact is,” she said, “ I do it as a sort of 
penance. When I was a girl, and lived here, 
the children were afraid of me, and it was no 
wonder. I used to concoct horrible eerie tales 
about the devil-fish, to frighten them, and I 
rather enjoyed my reputation as a sort of hob- 
goblin creature, who had an uncanny knowledge 
of the terrors of the sea. Some of them used 
to delight me by screaming, and running away, 
when they caught sight of me ; and now I have 
arrived at years of discretion, I feel as if I ought 
to do something to retrieve myself with this 
second generation. Poor little imps ! Their 
lives are not too easy.” 


Miss Crespigny. 


27 1 


She was away, indulging in one of these 
walks, this afternoon. 

“ We could find her somewhere on the shore, 
I know,” said Georgie, in answer to Miss Tre- 
garthyn’s inquiry. “ She is fond of the shore, 
and always goes therefor her strolls. If Hector 
is equal to a sea-breeze, and a mile or so of 
sand, after his journey, he might even go in 
search of her. 

And it having been proved satisfactorily that 
Hector was not only equal to such exertion, 
but anxious to enjoy it ; after an hour’s chat 
with Miss Millicent, and Miss Clarissa, and 
Miss Hetty, Georgie ran up stairs for her hat, 
and returning to the parlor, took charge of the 
expedition. 

It really seemed one of the peculiarities of 
Pen’yllan to be on its good behavior at oppor- 
tune times. 

“ It is bluer than ever, to-day,” said Georgie, 
nodding at her friend, the sea, as they strolled 
toward it. “ And the crests of the little waves 
are whiter, and the sea-gulls are in a better 
temper than they usually are, and more satisfied 
with their lot.” 

She had never looked brighter or more at- 
tractive herself, and this was her companion’s 
mental comment. The many resplendent 


272 


Miss Crespigny . 


young swains who admired Miss Georgie Es- 
mond, as she appeared in London ball-rooms, 
would surely have become more hopelessly 
enamored than ever, had they seen her with 
the Pen’yllan roses on her cheeks, and the 
sparkle of the sun-lit sea in her eyes. 

“ Where is there another creature like her? ” 
said Hector Anstruthers to himself. “ Where 
is there another creature as fresh, as good, as 
natural and unspotted ?” 


Miss Crespigny . 


273 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A GHOST. 

He had thought of her very often of late, and 
indeed had been quite eager to make his visit 
to Pen’yllan, for no other reason, he told him- 
self, than because he should see her there, and 
hear her sweet young voice again. And now 
he had come, and she had welcomed him, and 
they were walking over the sands, side by side. 
And yet — and yet — Was it possible that he 
felt restless and dissatisfied with his own emo- 
tions? Was it possible that the rapture he 
had tried to imagine, in London, was not so 
rapturous here, in Pen’yllan? Could it be that, 
after all, he was still only admiring her affec- 
tionately, in a brotherly way, as he had always 
done — admiring and reverencing her, gently, 
as the dearest, prettiest, truest girl he had ever 
known ? Long ago, when, at the time of that 
old folly, he remembered a certain tremulous 
bliss he had experienced when he had been per- 
mitted to spend an hour with the beloved ob- 
ject, he remembered the absolute pangs of joy 
with which one glance from certain great, 


274 


Miss Crespigny . 


cruel, dark eyes had filled him ; he remembered 
how the sound of a girlish voice had possessed 
the power to set every drop of blood in his 
veins beating. He was as calm as ever he had 
been in his life, as he strolled on with Georgie 
Esmond ; he could meet her bright eyes with- 
out even the poor mockery of a tremor. He 
had felt nothing but calm pleasure even when 
he grasped her soft hand in greeting. Would 
it always be thus? Was it best that it should 
be so? Perhaps! And yet, in the depths of 
his heart lay a strange yearning for just one 
touch of the old delirium — just one pang of the 
old, bitter-sweet pain. 

“ There ! ” exclaimed Georgie, ending his 
reverie for him. “ There she is, standing on 
the rocks. Don't you see that dark-blue rib- 
bon, fluttering? ” 

It was curious enough that his heart should 
give such a startled bound, when his eyes fell 
upon the place to which Georgie directed his 
attention. But, then again, perhaps, it was no 
wonder, considering how familiar the scene be- 
fore him was. Years ago he had been wont to 
come to this very spot, and find a slight figure 
standing in that very nook of rocks ; a slight 
girl’s figure, clad in a close-fitting suit of sailor- 
blue, a cloud of blown-about hair falling to the 


Miss Crespigny . 


2 75 

waist, and dark-blue ribbons fluttering from a 
rough-and-ready little sailor-hat of straw. And 
there was the very figure, and the very accom- 
paniments ; the dress, the abundant tossed- 
about hair, the fluttering ribbon, the sea, the 
sky, the shore. He was so silent, for a mo- 
ment, that Georgie spoke to him again, after a 
quick glance at his changed expression. 

“ Don’t you see that it is Lisbeth?” she said, 
laughing. “ She is very quiet, but she is alive, 
nevertheless. We shall reach her in a minute. 
She is watching the gulls, I think. I thought 
we should find her here. This is our favorite 
resting-place.” 

Lisbeth was evidently either watching some- 
thing, or in a very thoughtful mood. She did 
not move, or even appear to be conscious of 
any approaching presence, until Georgie called 
to her, “ Lisbeth ! Lisbeth ! ” and then she 
looked round with a start. 

“ What ! ” she said. “ Is it you two ? How 
you startled me ! You came like ghosts ! And 
Mr. Anstruthers,” glancing at Hector, “ looks 
like one. He is so pale ! ” 

“ I have seen a ghost,” was his reply. 

“ I am glad to hear it,” said Lisbeth, coolly. 
“ Ghosts make a place interesting.” 

She is so like herself, so self-possessed, and 


276 


Miss Crespigny . 


wholly Lisbeth-like, that she wakens him com- 
pletely from the sort of stupor into which he 
had for a moment fallen. She holds out her 
hand for him to shake, and favors him with an 
unmoved, not too enthusiastic smile. She is 
polite and reasonably hospitable in her greet- 
ing, but she does not seem to be overwhelmed 
with the power of her emotions. 

“ Sit down/’ she says, “ and let us rest a 
while. We have plenty of time to reach home 
before dinner ; and if we hadn’t, it would not 
matter much. My aunts are used to being 
kept waiting. They are too amiable to be iron- 
hearted about rules.” 

So they sit down, and then, despite the 
reality of her manner, Anstruthers finds him- 
self in a dream again. As Lisbeth talks, her 
voice carries him back to the past. Uncon- 
sciously she has fallen into an attitude which is 
as familiar as all the rest , her hands folded on 
her knees, her face turned seaward. The scent 
of the sea is in the air ; the sound of its mur- 
murs in his ears. The color on the usually 
clear, pale cheek is the color he used to admire 
with such lover-like extravagance — a pure pink 
tint, bright and rare. She seems to have gone 
back to her seventeen years, and he has gone 
back with her. 


Miss Crespigny . 


277 


When at last they rise to return, he is wan- 
dering in this dream still, and he is very silent 
as they walk home. As they enter the garden 
gate, they see Miss Clarissa standing at the 
window, watching for them, just as she had 
used to do, to Lisbeth’s frequent irritation, in 
the olden days. And Lisbeth, pausing at the 
gate, gathered a large red rose. 

“ The roses are in bloom,” she says, “ just as 
they were when I went away with Mrs. Des- 
pard. I could almost persuade myself that I 
had never been away at all.” 

That velvet-leaved red rose was placed care- 
lessly in her hair, when she came down stairs, 
after dressing for dinner, and its heavy fra- 
grance floated about her. She wore one of her 
prettiest dresses, looked her best, and was in 
a good humor ; and accordingly the Misses 
Tregarthyn were restored to perfect peace of 
mind, and rendered happy. It was plain, they 
thought, that Miss Esmond had been right, 
and there was no need for fear. How the 
spinster trio enjoyed themselves that evening, 
to be sure ! 

“You used to sing some very pretty songs 
for us, my love,” said Miss Clarissa. “ I won- 
der if you remember the one Hector was so 
fond of? Something very sweet, about drink- 


278 


Miss Crespigny. 


ing to somebody with your eyes, and he would 
not ask for wine. I really forget the rest.” 

Lisbeth, who was turning over a pile of her 
old music, looked up at Anstruthers with a 
civil, wicked smile. 

“ Did I sing, ‘ Drink to me only ’ ? ” she said. 
“ And was it a favorite of yours? I wonder if 
it is here? How nice that Aunt Clarissa should 
remind us of it ! ” 

She drew out the yellow old sheet from un- 
der the rest of the music in a minute more, her 
smile not without a touch of venomous amuse- 
ment. How she had loathed it a few years 
ago! 

“ I wonder if I could sing it,” she said ; and, 
prompted by some daring demon, she sat down 
at the piano, and sang it from beginning to 
end. But, by the time she had struck the last 
chord, her mood changed. She got up, with a 
little frown, and she did not look at Anstruthers 
at all. 

“ Bah ! ” she said. “ What nonsense it is ! ” 
And she pushed the poor, old, faded sheet im- 
patiently aside. 

Anstruthers moved a step forward, and laid 
his hand upon it. 

“ Will you give it to me ?” he asked, with a 
suppressed force in his manner, quite new. 


Miss Crespigny . 


279 


“Why?” she demanded, indifferently. 

“ For a whim’s sake,” he answered. “There 
is no accounting for tastes. Perhaps I may 
fancy that I should like to learn it.” 

She raised her eyebrows, and gave her shoul- 
ders a puzzled little shrug. 

“You are welcome to it,” she commented. 
“ It is not an article of value.” 

“Thanks,” rather sardonically ; and he folded 
the sheet, and slipped it into his pocket. 

Their life at Pen’yllan was scarcely exciting ; 
but notwithstanding this, they found it by no 
means unenjoyable, even now, when the first 
week or so had accustomed them to it. They 
took long stretches of walks ; they sunned 
themselves on the sands ; they sailed, and 
rowed, and read, and studied each other in 
secret. Georgie, who studied Lisbeth and An- 
struthers by turns, found that she made more 
progress with the latter than the former. Lis- 
beth, never easy to read, was even more incom- 
prehensible than usual. She shared all their 
amusements, and was prolific in plans to add 
to them, but her manner toward her ex-adorer 
was merely reasonably civil and hospitable, 
and certainly did not encourage comment. To 
her friend it was a manner simply inscrutable. 
“Can she care at all ?” wondered Georgie. 


28 o 


Miss Crespigny . 


“ She does not look as if she had ever been 
sorry in her life ; and yet she cried that day.” 
With Anstruthers it was different. He could 
not pursue the even tenor of his way without 
feeling sometimes a sting. At first he con- 
trolled himself pretty well, and held his own 
against circumstances, even almost calmly. 
Then the stings came only at rare intervals, 
but afterward he experienced them more fre- 
quently. He was not so callous, after all, and 
he found it more difficult to conceal his rest- 
lessness when some old memory rushed upon 
him with sudden force. Such memories began 
to bring bitter, rebellious moods with them, 
and once or twice such moods revealed them- 
selves in bitter speeches. Sometimes he was 
silent, and half gloomy, sometimes recklessly 
gay. But at all times he held to Georgie as 
his safeguard. Whatever his mood might be, 
he drew comfort from her presence. She gave 
him a sense of security. That kind little hand 
of hers held him back from many an indiscre- 
tion. Surely, the day was drawing near when 
he could open his heart to her, and ask her to 
let the kind young hand be his safeguard for- 
ever. He was sorely tempted many a day, 
but somehow it always ended in “ Not yet ! 
Not quite yet ! ” But his tender admiration 


Miss Crespigny. 


281 


for her showed itself so undisguisedly, in every 
action, that the Misses Tregarthyn looked on 
delighted. 

“ I am sure that there is an understanding 
between them,” observed Miss Millicent. 

Miss Hetty shook her head in a comfortable, 
approving fashion. 

“ Ah, yes, indeed ! ” she said. “ One can 
easily see that. What do you think, my 
dear? ” This was to Lisbeth, who was sitting 
reading. 

Lisbeth shut her book suddenly, and getting 
up, came to the window. 

“ What is it you are saying? ” she demanded, 
in the manner of one who had just awakened 
from a sleep, or a drowsy reverie. “ I don’t 
think I heard you.” 

“We were speaking,” said Miss Millicent, 
“ of our young friends in the garden. Sister 
Hetty thinks, with me, that Hector is very 
fond of Miss Esmond.” 


282 


Miss Crcspigny. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN VERY SWEET. 

LlSBETH looked out into the garden, where 
the two stood together, Georgie blushing and 
smiling, as fresh and flower-like herself as any 
of Miss Clarissa’s many blossoms, Hector talk- 
ing to her eagerly, his eyes full of pleasure in 
her beauty and youth. \ 

'‘Fond of her?” she said, abstractedly. 
“ Who is not fond of her ? ” 

“But,” suggested Miss Hetty, “we mean 
fond of her in — in a different way.” 

She had laid her hand on Lisbeth’s shoulder, 
and, as she spoke, she thought she felt a slight 
start ; but the girl’s voice was steady enough 
when she spoke the next minute. 

“Oh!” she said, laughing a little, “you 
mean that he is in love with her. I have no 
doubt you are right, though — though I had 
scarcely thought of that. Men are always in 
love with somebody; and if he is in love with 
Georgie, it does him great credit. I did not 
think he had the good taste.” 

But the fact was, that the idea was some- 


Miss Crespigny . 283 

thing like a new light dawning upon her. Actu- 
ally she had been so blind as not to think of 
this. And it had been before her eyes day 
after day ! 

“You have been an idiot,” was her uncere- 
monious mental comment upon her own stu- 
pidity. “ You have thought so much of your- 
self, that you have seen nothing. It is Hector 
Anstruthers who has touched her heart. She 
doubted either herself, or him, when she was 
* not so happy/ And this is the end of it — 
the end of it. Good ! ” 

Perhaps she was relieved, and felt more com- 
fortable, for she had never been more amusing 
and full of spirit than she had appeared when 
she joined the couple in the garden. 

The twilight had been falling when she left 
the house ; and when the soft dusk came on, 
they still loitered in the garden. The air was 
warm and balmy. Miss Clarissa’s flower beds 
breathed forth perfume; the murmur of the 
waves upon the beach crept up to them ; the 
moon rose in the sky, solemn, watchful, and 
silver-clear. 

“ Who would care to go back to earth, and 
parlors?” said Georgie. “This is Arcadia — 
silent, odorous, and sweet. Let us stay, Lis- 
beth” 


284 


Miss Crespigny . 


So they sauntered here and there until they 
were tired, and then they found a resting-place, 
under a laburnum tree ; and Anstruthers, fling- 
ing himself upon the grass, lay at full length, 
his hands clasped under his head, watching 
Lisbeth, in newly stirred bitterness and dis- 
content. 

Discontent ? Ah ! what discontent it was 
What bitterness ! To-night it reached its 
climax. Was he a man, indeed, or had he 
gone back to boyhood, and to that old folly 
upon which his youth had been wrecked ? 
Moonlight was very becoming to Lisbeth. It 
gave her colorless face the white of a lily leaf, 
and her great eyes a new depth and shadow. 
She looked her best, just now, as she had a 
habit of looking her best, at all inopportune 
and dangerous times. 

Georgie, leaning, in a luxury of quiet dream- 
ing, against the trunk of the laburnum, broke 
in upon his mental plaints, by speaking to her 
friend. 

“ Sing, Lisbeth,” she said. u You look as if 
you were in a singing mood.” 

Lisbeth smiled, a faint smile not unlike 
moonlight. She was in a singing mood, but 
she was in a fantastic, half-melancholy mood, 
too. Perhaps this was why she chose a rather 


Miss Crcspigny . 


285 


melancholy song. She folded her hands upon 
her knees, in that favorite fashion of hers, the 
fashion Anstruthers remembered so well, and 
began : 

“ All that I had to give I gave — 

Good-by ! 

Yet Love lies silent in the grave, 

And that I lose, which most I crave, 

Good-by ! Good-by ! Good-by ! 

“ Nay ! turn your burning eyes away ! 

Good-by ! 

It comes to this — this bitter day, 

That you and I can only say, 

Good-l5y ! Good-by ! Good-by ! 

“ The rest lies buried with the past ! 

Good-by ! 

The golden days, that sped so fast, 

The golden days, too bright to last ; 

Good-by ! Good-by ! Good-by ! 

“ The fairest rose blooms but a dav. 

Good-by ! 

The fairest Spring must end with May, 

And you and I can only say, 

Good-by ! Good-by ! Good-by ! ” 

“Ah, Lisbeth ! ” cried Georgie, when she 
stopped. “ What a sad thing ! I never heard 
you sing it before/’ 

“ No,” answered Lisbeth. “ I don’t think 


286 


Miss Crespigny. 


anybody ever heard me sing it before. It is 
an imitation of a little German song I have 
heard, or read, somewhere. I can’t remember 
where, indeed. I can remember nothing but 
that the refrain of ‘ Good-by ’ haunted me ; 

and the words I have just sung grew out of 

• , » > 

it. 

Anstruthers said nothing. He had watched 
her face, as she sung, and had almost lost con- 
trol over himself, as he was often on the verge 
of doing lately. What a consummate actress 
the girl was ! The mournful little song had 
fallen from lips as sweetly and sadly as if 
both words and music welled from a tender, 
tried, soft heart. An innocent girl of sixteen 
might have sung just such a song, in just such 
a voice, if she had lost her lover. Once he had 
been amazed by the fancy that the large, mel- 
low, dark eyes were full of tears. 

He had been quiet enough before, but after 
the song was ended, he did not utter a word, 
but lay silent upon the grass until their return 
to the house. 

Georgie rose first, and then Lisbeth and 
himself. But Georgie, going on before them, 
left them a moment together, and as they 
crossed the lawn, Lisbeth paused, and bending 
over a bed of lilies to gather a closed white 


M iss Cresp igny. 287 

bud, sang, in a low tone, as if unconsciously, 
the last verse. 

“ The fairest rose blooms but a day. 

Good-by ! 

The fairest Spring must end with May, 

And you and I can only say, 

Good-by ! Good-by ! Good by ! ” 

When she stood upright, she found herself 
confronting a face so pale and agitated, that 
she drew back a little. 

“ I wish to God,” he broke out, “ I wish to 
God that you were a better woman ! ” 

She looked up at him for a second, with a 
smile, cold, and strange, and bitter. 

“ I wish to God I was ! ” she said, and, with- 
out another word, turned from him and walked 
away, flinging her closed lilies upon the dewy 
grass. 

When, the next day, at noon, they strolled 
out upon the lawn, the lilies were lying there, 
their waxen petals browning and withering in 
the hot sun. Georgie stooped, and picked one 
up. 

“ What a pity ! ” she said. “ They would 
have been so pretty to-day. I wonder who 
gathered them.” 

Lisbeth regarded the poor little brown bud 

O i 

with a queer smile. 


288 


Miss Crespigny . 

“ I gathered them/’ she said. “ It does 
seem a pity, too — almost cruel, doesn’t it? But 
that is always the way with people. They 
gather their buds first, and sympathize with 
them afterward.” Then she held out her hand. 
“ Give it to me,” she said ; and when Georgie 
handed the wilted thing to her, she took it, still 
half smiling in that queer way. “ Yes,” she 
commented. “ It might have been very sweet 
to-day. It was useless cruelty to kill it so early. 
It will never be a flower now. You see, Geor- 
gie, my dear,” dryly, “ how I pity my bud — 
afterward ! Draw a moral from me, and never 
gather your flowers too soon. They might be 
very sweet to-morrow.” 

She had not often talked in this light, sati- 
rical way of late, but Georgie observed that she 
began to fall into the habit again after this. 
She had odd moods, and was not quite so frank 
as her young admirer liked to see her. And 
something else struck Georgie as peculiar, too. 
She found herself left alone with Hector much 
oftener. In their walks, and sails, and saun- 
terings in the garden, Lisbeth’s joining them 
became the exception, instead of the rule, as 
it had been heretofore. It seemed always by 
chance that she failed to accompany them, but 
it came to the same thing in the end. 


1 


Miss Crespigny . 


289 


Georgie pondered over the matter in private, 
with much anxiety. She really began to feel 
as if something strange had happened. Had 
there been a new quarrel? Hector was more 
fitful and moody than ever. Sometimes he 
looked so miserable and pale, that she was a 
little frightened. When he talked, he was bitter ; 
and when he was silent, his silence was tragi- 
cal. But he was as fond of her as ever he had 
been. Nay, he even seemed fonder of her, and 
more anxious to be near her, at all times. 

“ I am not a very amusing companion, 
Georgie, my dear,” he would say, “ but you 
will bear with me, I know. You are my hope 
and safeguard, Georgie. If you would not bear 
with me, who would ? ” 

She often wondered at his way of speaking 
of her, as his safeguard. Indeed, he not only 
called her his safeguard, but showed, by his 
manner, that he flew to her as a sort of refuge. 
Once, when they had been sitting together in 
silence, for some time, he suddenly seized her 
hand, and kissed it passionatel) r and despe- 
rately. 

“ Georgie,” he said, “ if I were to come to 
you some day and ask you to save me from a 
great danger, would you try to do as I asked 
you r 


290 


Miss Crespigny. 


She did not draw her hand away, but let it 
rest in his, as she answered him, with a quiet, 
half-sad smile : 

“ I would not refuse to try to help any one 
in the world, who was in danger — even a per- 
son I was not fond of,” she said. “ And you 
know we have been friends all our lives, Hec- 
tor.” 

“ But if I were to ask a great gift of you,” he 
persisted, “ a great gift, of which I was not wor- 
thy, but which was the only thing that could 
save me from ruin ? ” 

“You must ask me first,” she said, and then, 
though it was done very gently, she did take 
her hand away. 


Miss Crespigny . 


291 


CHAPTER XV. 

WE WON’T go yet. 

Having coolly laid her plans for leaving the 
two to enjoy themselves, Lisbeth retired upon 
her laurels, with the intention of finding amuse- 
ments of her own. She had entertained her- 
self before, easily enough, why not again ? 
Naturally, as they had fallen in love with each 
other, they would not want her; even Georgie 
would not want her. And it was quite natural 
that they should have fallen in love. They 
were the sort of people to do it. And Georgie 
would make a charming wife, and, if her hus- 
band proved a tyrant, would still go down upon 
her knees and adore him, and thank Heaven 
for her prince’s affection, and his perfections, 
to the end of her innocent days. As for her- 
self, it was no business of hers, when she had 
done her duty toward her friend. The best 
thing she could do, would be to leave them 
alone, and she left them alone, and gave them 
every opportunity to be lover-like, if they had 
chosen. 

But one day, Miss Clarissa, looking up from 


292 


M iss Crespigny . 


her sewing, started, quite nervously, at the sud- 
den impression made upon her of something 
new in her dear Lisbeth’s appearance. 

“ My dear Lisbeth!” she exclaimed, “ how 
pale and ill you look ! ” 

“ I am always pale,” said Lisbeth. 

“But, my love,” protested Miss Clarissa, 
“you are pale, to-day, in a different way. You 
must be suffering. Dear! dear! How careless 
in us not to have remarked it before ! I almost 
believe — nay, indeed, I am sure — that you look 
thin, actually thin ! ” 

“ I am always thin,” said Lisbeth. 

But Miss Clarissa was not to be consoled by 
any such coolness of manner. When she looked 
again more closely, she was quite sure that she 
was right, that her dear Lisbeth showed unmis- 
takable signs of being in a dreadful state of 
health. She fell into a positive condition of 
tremor and remorse. She had been neglected ; 
they had been heartlessly careless, not to see 
before that she was not strong. It must be 
attended to at once. And really, if Lisbeth 
had not been very decided, it is not at all un- 
likely that she would have been put to bed, 
and dosed, and w ept over by all three spinsters 
at once. 

“ I hope it is not that Pen’yllan does not 


Miss Crcspigny . 


293 


agree with you,” faltered Miss Hetty. “ We 
always thought the air very fresh and bracing, 
but you certainly do not look like yourself, Lis- 
beth.” 

And the truth was that she did not look 
like herself. Much as she might protest against 
the assertion, she was thinner and paler than 
usual. 

“ I am not ill,” she said, “ whether I look ill 
or not. I never was better in my life. I have 
not slept very well of late ; that is all. And I 
must beg you to let me have my own way 
about it, Aunt Clarissa. It is all nonsense. 
Don’t fuss over me, I implore you. You will 
spoil Georgie’s love story for her, and make 
Mr. Anstruthers uncomfortable. Men hate 
fuss of any kind. Leave me alone, when they 
are in the house, and I will take all the medi- 
cine you choose to give me in private, though 
it is all nonsense, I assure you.” 

But was it nonsense? Alas! I must confess, 
though it is with extreme reluctance, that the 
time came when the invincible was beaten, and 
felt that she was. It was not nonsense. 

One afternoon, after sitting at her bedroom 
window for an hour, persuading herself that 
she was reading, while Georgie and Anstruthers 
enjoyed a tete-a-tete in the garden below, she 


294 


Miss Crespigny . 


suddenly closed her book, and, rising from her 
chair, began to dress to go out. 

She was down stairs, and out upon the beach, 
in five minutes ; and, once away from the house, 
she began to walk furiously. She looked neither 
to right nor left, as she went. She was not in 
the humor to have her attention distracted from 
her thoughts by any beauty of sea, or sky, or 
shore. She saw the yellow sand before her, 
and that was all. She reached the old trysting- 
place, among the rocks, before she stopped. 
Once there, she gave herself time to breathe, 
and, standing still, looked back at the ground 
over which she had come. There was a worn- 
out expression in her face, such as the Misses 
Tregarthyn had never yet seen, even when they 
thought her at her worst. And yet, in a min- 
ute more, she smiled with actual grimness. 

“ I am being punished now,” she said, aloud. 
“ I am being punished now for everything I 
have ever done in my life. Now I begin to 
understand.” 

There was humiliation enough in her soul 
then to have made her grovel in the sand at 
her feet, if she had been prone to heroics or 
drama. Yes, she was beginning to understand. 
It was her turn now. Oh, to have come to 
this ! To have learned this ! 


Miss Cresp igny . 


295 


It was characteristic of her nature — an un- 
fortunate nature at this time, passing through 
a new experience, and battling fiercely against 
it — that when, immediately afterward, the tears 
began to fill her eyes, and roll down her cheeks, 
they were the bitter, bitter tears of passionate 
mortification and anger. She could almost 
have killed herself, for very self-contempt and 
shame. 

“ What reason is there in it?” she said. 
“ None. What has brought me to it? No- 
thing. Is he as worthy now as he was then ? 
No! Isn’t it sheer madness? Yes, it is.” 

She spoke truly, too. There was no reason 
in it. It was madness. He had done nothing 
to touch her heart, had made no effort to 
reach it. And yet he had reached and touched 
it. It would not have been like her to love a 
man because he was good, because he had 
made love to her ; indeed, because of anything. 
Her actions were generally without any cause 
but her own peremptory fancies ; and here, 
some strange, sudden caprice of emotion had 
been too much for her. How she had suffered 
since she discovered her weakness, no one but 
herself would ever know. She had writhed 
under it, burned under it, loathed it, and yet 
been conquered by it. Almost every blade of 


296 


Miss Crespigny . 


Pen’yllan grass reminded her of some wrong 
she had done to the kindly, impetuous young 
fellow, who had loved her in the past. Almost 
every grain of Pen’yllan sand taunted her with 
some wanton selfishness, or cruelty, which must 
be remembered by the man who could have 
nothing but dislike for her in the present. 

“ I should be grateful now,” she cried, bit- 
terly. “Yes! Grateful for a tithe of what I 
once had under foot. This is eating dirt with 
a vengeance.” 

She might well frighten Miss Clarissa with 
her pallor and wretched looks. The intensity 
of her misery and humiliation was wearing her 
out, and robbing her of sleep and appetite. 
She wanted to leave Pen’yllan, but how could 
she suggest it? Georgie was so happy, she 
told herself, with a vindictive pleasure in her 
pain, that it would be a pity to disturb her. 

She walked up and down the beach for half 
an hour before she returned home ; and when 
she went her way, she was so tired as to be 
fairly exhausted. At the side door, by which 
she entered the house, she met Georgie, who 
held an open letter in her hand. 

“ Whom from ? ” asked Lisbeth, for lack of 
something to say. 

“ Mamma,” was the girl’s answer. “ She 


Miss Crespigny. 297 

wonders when we are going home ; but I am 

enjoying Pen’yllan so much ” 

She paused, and blushed. Just lately it had 
occurred to her that it might be possible that 
Lisbeth misunderstood her relation to Hector, 
and something in Lisbeth’s face made her stop 
and blush in this opportune manner. 

“ The weather is so lovely,” she ended, “ that 
I don’t think I want to go yet.” 

Lisbeth smiled, but her smile was an ab- 
stracted sort of affair. 

“ No,” she said. “ We won’t go yet. Pen’yllan 
is doing both of us good ; and it is doing Mr. 
Anstruthers good, too. We won’t go yet. Tell 
Mrs. Esmond so, Georgie.” 

And then she carried her absent smile up 
stairs. 


298 


Miss Crcspigny. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

YES — TO LISBETH. 

GEORGIE stood still, and looked after her. 
She blushed more deeply than ever. A queer 
distress and discomfort came upon her, and 
filled her mind. She had only wondered, be- 
fore, if it w T as possible that Lisbeth did not 
know, did not wholly understand ; but now the 
truth revealed itself in an uncomfortable flash 
of recognition. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, under her breath. 
“ She does not see. She thinks — I am sure she 
thinks — ” But she did not put the rest into 
words. 

Pen’yllan, and the lovely weather, quite lost 
their charm for the moment. As she walked 
slowly down the hall, toward the parlor, hold- 
ing her mother’s letter in her hand, she would 
almost have been glad to run away. She re- 
membered so many little peculiarities she had 
noticed in Lisbeth’s manner, of late. She had 
managed to leave her alone with Hector so 
often ; she had taken so many of those long 
walks by herself ; she had not looked well ; she 


Miss Crespigny . 


2 99 


had sometimes been abstracted and restless. 
The girl’s heart quite fluttered at the thought 
which all these things forced upon her. She 
was afraid to indulge in such a fancy. That 
day, when her confession had been made upon 
the beach, Lisbeth had confessed that she was 
sorry for her past cruelty. Could it be that 
her remorse had developed into a stronger 
feeling? Could it be that she was more than 
sorry now? That she was beginning to value 
the love she had thrown away, even to long 
for it ? As I have said, the thought frightened 
Georgie a little. She had seen so much to 
admire in Hector Anstruthers, that she had 
often wondered, innocently, how it was possible 
that Lisbeth could have resisted his numerous 
charms and perfections. How, indeed, could 
any woman whom he loved be so hard to please 
as not to appreciate him ? She, herself, had 
appreciated him, she told herself, blushing, 
even though he had not loved her at all as he 
had loved Lisbeth. And yet she felt now as 
if it would be almost dreadful to think that 
Lisbeth, cool, self-controlled Lisbeth, had given 
way, in spite of her coolness and self-control. 
And then, if this was the true state of affairs, 
how much more dreadful it became to feel that 
she was misunderstood ; that Lisbeth saw in 


300 


Miss Crespigny. 


her a rival. Something must be clone, it was 
plain, but it was a difficult matter to decide 
what the something should be. Ah ! if it had 
only been a matter she could have talked over 
with mamma, who knew everything, and could 
always advise her. But it was Lisbeth’s secret 
— Lisbeth’s and Hector’s ; and so she must be 
loyal to her trust. 

She was quite sad, in the midst of her laby- 
rinth, all the afternoon ; so sad, that when An- 
struthers came in from the village, to partake 
of Miss Clarissa’s tea, he marked the change 
in her at once. But he was in a gloomy mood 
himself ; so it is not to be wondered at that 
the small party around the table was not near- 
ly so gay as usual. Lisbeth had a headache. 
Her eyes were heavy, and she said but little, 
and disappeared as soon as the meal was at an 
end. 

Georgie would have followed her at once, 
but in the hall Hector stopped her. 

“ Come into the garden, Georgie,” he said ; 
“ I have something to say to you.” 

“Very well,” said Georgie, “as soon as I 
have asked Lisbeth to come, too.” 

“ But,” he returned, “ I do not want Lis- 
beth. What I have to say I must say to you, 
not Lisbeth.” 


Miss Crespigny. 


301 


Georgie had been standing with one foot on 
the lowest stair, and her hand on the balus- 
trades, but a tone in his voice made her turn 
round, and look up questioningly. He was 
pale and haggard. She saw in an instant that 
he was not quite himself. A little pain shot 
through her tender heart. How unhappy he 
looked ! 

“ You are very pale, Hector,” she said, pity- 
ingly. 

He tried to smile, but it was a constrained 
effort. 

“ I suppose I am nervous,” he answered. 
“ Be good to me, Georgie, my dear.” And he 
held out his hand to her. “ Come,” he said, 
“ Lisbeth does not care for our society much. 
She always avoids us when she can.” 

Georgie’s face fell. Had he seen it, too ? 

Then surely it must be true that Lisbeth did 
avoid them. 

She was so full of her trouble about Lisbeth, 
that it scarcely occurred to her mind that he 
had made a very simple request, in an unusual 
way. She did not even ask herself what he 
could be going to say, that he would not say 
before Lisbeth. 

But she became more conscious of the 
strangeness of his mood every moment. He 


302 


Miss Crespigny . 


hardly spoke half a dozen more words, until 
they reached their usual seat, under the la- 
burnum. There, when she sat down, he flung 
himself upon the grass, at her side, in his 
favorite unceremonious fashion ; but for a 
minute or so, he did not even look at her. 
She had never thought him boyish before, 
but just then the thought entered her mind, 
that he was very boyish indeed, and she 
began to pity and wonder at him more and 
more. 

Suddenly he turned toward her and spoke. 

“ Georgie, my dear/' he said, his voice quite 
trembling, “ I am going to ask you for that 
great gift, of which I am so unworthy.” 

What need that he should say another word ? 
She knew quite well, then, what he meant, and 
why it was that he had not wanted Lisbeth. 
And, ready as she usually was with her blushes, 
she did not blush at all. She even lost all her 
bright color at once, and confronted him with 
a face quite pale and altered. 

“You may go on, Hector,” she said; “I 
will listen.” 

So he broke out hurriedly and desperately, 
and poured forth his appeal. 

“ I don’t know how I dare ask so much,” he 
said. “ I don’t know how I dare speak at all. 


303 


Miss Crespigny. 

% 

You do not understand what my life has been. 
God forbid that you should ! But what is left 
of it is not worthy of you, Georgie — the sweet- 
est, purest woman that God ever made. And 
yet I think it is because I honor you so much, 
that I dare to throw myself on your mercy. I 
want to be a better man, my dear, and — and — - 
will you help me? You see what I am asking 
you for, Georgie?” And he bent his pale face 
over her hand, kissing it as some sad penitent 
might kiss a saint’s. 

A strange love-making, indeed ! The girl 
gave a little sob. Yes, actually, a little sob. 
But she let him hold her hand, just as she had 
let him hold it, that day before. She had put 
her budding love aside, and outlived it bravely ; 
but there was a pang in this, nevertheless, and 
she could not help but feel it. It would be 
over in a moment, but it stung sharply, for the 
instant. 

“Yes, Hector, I see,” she answered, almost 
directly. “You are asking me if I will marry 
you.” 

“ Yes, my dear.” And he kissed her hand 
again. 

Then there was a silence, for a little while ; 
and he waited, wondering and feeling, God 
knows what strange hope, or fear, at heart. At 


3°4 


Miss Crespigny . 


length, however, another fair, small hand was 
laid softly on his, causing him to glance up, 
questioningly. 

“ Is that the answer?” he ventured, with a 
new throb of the heart. 

But she shook her head, smiling a sweet, 
half-sad smile. 

“ It is not that answer,” she said, “ but it is 
an answer in its way. It means that I am go- 
ing to speak to you, from my heart.” 

“ I think you always do that,” he said, un- 
steadily. 

“ Yes, always; but now, more than ever, I 
must be very true to you, indeed, to-day, be- 
cause — because you have made a mistake, 
Hector.” 

“ A mistake ! Then it is not the first.” 

But what a craven he felt at soul ! How 
hard it was to meet her clear, bright eyes ! 

“You have made a mistake,” she went on. 
“ Oh, if I was not true to you, and to myself 
as well, your whole life might be a mistake 
from this hour, and everything might go wrong. 
You fancy that, because you can admire and 
trust me, that you could learn to love me, too, 
in that best way, as you do not now, when I 
was your wife. But you could not, however 
hard you might try, and however hard I might 


Miss Crespigny . 


305 


try, too ; you could not. You could only teach 
yourself a poor imitation of that best way, and 
you would be unsatisfied at heart, Hector; and 
so should I. Husbands and wives ought to have 
that best kind of love, and nothing else, be- 
cause nothing else will fill its place — the place 
in their hearts that God made to be filled by 
it. Because you are honest and true to me,” 
with a warm grasp of the small hand, though 
warm tears were in her eyes, “ you do not 
say that you have that kind of love to of- 
fer me, and I know you have not. I. think 
that, perhaps, you could not give it to me, 
even if — don’t be angry, Hector, because I 
could not help seeing it — you had not given 
it, almost in spite of yourself, to some one 
else ” 

“ To some one else ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Yes,” she said, sorrowfully, “ to Lisbeth.” 

He drew his hands away, and covered his 
face with them, with something like a groan of 
despair. 

“ I am answered,” he said. “ Don’t say any- 
thing more, Georgie. That is enough.” 

“ Don't misunderstand me,” cried the girl. 
“You could not help it. How could you? 
The old love never died out, really. And now, 
when you see her so much better, and more 


3°6 


Miss Crcspigny. 


beautiful, how could it be otherwise than that 
it should spring into new life, and be stronger 
than ever? It is Lisbeth you love, Hector, 
and she is worthy of your love — of anybody’s 
love, if you would only understand her rightly. 
Is it pride that holds you back from showing 
your heart to her, or is it because, even though 
you love her, you have not forgiven her for 
your old misery? Tell me.” 

“ Do I love her,” he asked, “ or hate her ? ” 

“ You love her,” answered Georgie. 

“ And yet,” he said, gloomily, “ I have asked 
you to marry me, and you have answered me, 
as gently as an angel might have done.” 

“It was only that you made a mistake,” said 
the girl. 

“A mistake!” he echoed. “ Ay, it was a 
mistake! And, as I said, it is not the first I 
have made. My life has been full of blun- 
ders.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Georgie, “ how I wish I was wise 
enough to know how to set them right. If you 
would only trust me and let me try.” 

He gave her a mournful smile. 

“ I thought there was a way,” he said, “ but 
you did not agree with me.” 

“ I knew better,” shaking her head, and 
coloring. “And perhaps I was too proud 


Miss Crespigny . 


307 


and jealous. I am not so good as you think me. 
I am very fond of you, but not fond enough 
to take your half-loaf. Let us forget it alto- 
gether/’ 


3°S 


Miss Crespigny . 


CHAPTER XVII. 

GOOD-BY. 

SURELY, so serious a question was never so 
dismissed in so short a time. For these few 
busy moments, the matter was as completely 
disposed of, as if they had spent hours in argu- 
ing it. He scarcely knew how it was that he 
felt so sure that he need say no more ; that the 
brave, simple, pretty Georgie had set his poor, 
weak plans aside so easily, and yet so tenderly. 
Much as he admired and reverenced her, there 
was a depth in her girlish nature which he had 
never sounded. It was all over for him with 
Georgie Esmond, though he need not fear that 
her friendship would ever waver. 

“ If I was only wise enough to help you,” she 
repeated ; “ if you would only trust me, and let 
me try.” 

“ If any one could help me, you could,” he 
said, “ but there is no help for me.” 

He had never once admitted to himself that 
this miserable passion could ever make him 
happy. It had never occurred to his mind 
that its termination would be anything but a 


Miss Crespigny . 


309 


wretched and humiliating one. As Georgie had 
suggested, he loved, but had not forgiven, and 
he told himself that his love was degraded in- 
fatuation. What was there to tie to in such a 
feeling ? Did he trust the woman to whom he 
was in secret a slave? No, he trusted her no 
more to-day than he had done before. But 
she had a hold upon his heart-strings, never- 
theless. The old witchery was exercising its 
full power upon him. It had been so strong, 
at last, that he had been maddened into mak- 
ing this coward’s effort to free himself. If 
Georgie would stretch out her hand, she might 
save him a fatal weakness, and so, even while 
he despised himself for his selfish folly, he had 
resolved to throw himself upon Georgie’s mer- 
cy. And here was the end of it ! Georgie 
was wiser than himself, clearer of sight, truer of 
soul, stronger, with a brave simplicity ; and she 
had proved to him what a shameful folly it 
was. Georgie would have none of him ; and 
yet how sweet she was, God bless her ! 

“ I shall leave Pen’yllan, in the morning,” 
he said. “ There is nothing to keep me here 
now, since you do not want me. Say that you 
forgive me, Georgie, and we will bid each other 
good-by, for the present.” 

“ You must not think that I have anything to 


3io 


Miss Crespigny . 


forgive,” she answered ; “but I do not say that 
you will be wrong in going. I believe it will be 
best. You do not quite understand yourself 
yet. Go away, and give yourself time to find 
out, whether you can conquer your heart, 
or not. The time will come when you will 
know.” 

“ And then ? ” somewhat bitterly. 

u Something will happen, I think,” her sim- 
ple faith in the kindness of Fortune asserting 
itself. “ I cannot believe that you will always 
be as unhappy as you are now. One of you 
will be sure to do or say something that will 
help the other.” 

A sudden color leaped to his face. Fler 
words held a suggestion of which he had never 
once thought, and which set his pulses beating 
hard and fast. 

“ What?” he exclaimed, his new feeling giv- 
ing him no time to check himself. “You do 
not think the time will ever come, when she — 
when she might feel, too ” 

“ I think,” said the girl, in a grave, almost 
reverent voice, “ I think the time has come 
now.” 

When they returned to the house, Lisbeth, 
seeing them from the parlor window, made a 
mental comment. 


Miss Crespigny . 


3ii 

a Judging from his face/’ she observed, “I 
should say that he had asked her to marry him, 
and had been accepted. Judging from hers, I 
should say her answer had been ‘ No.’ You are 
not easy to read, for once, Georgie. What does 
it mean ? ” 

Georgie came into the house, with a more 
composed look than her face had worn for 
several days. She laid her garden hat upon the 
hall table and walked straight into the parlor 
to her dear Lisbeth. She had a very shrewd 
idea that her dear Lisbeth knew nothing 
of their guest’s intended departure, and she 
wanted to be the first to break the news to 
her. It would not matter if any little secrets 
were betrayed to herself. So she went to 
the window, and laid her hand on Lisbeth’s 
shoulder. 

“ Did Hector tell you that he was going?” 
she asked, as if his having done so would have 
been the most natural thing in the world. 

“ That he was going? ” repeated Lisbeth. 

Georgie gazed considerately out into the 
garden. 

“ Yes. Back to London, you know — to-mor- 
row. I suppose he thinks he has been idle 
long enough.” 

Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders. 


3 12 


Miss Crcspigny. 


“ Rather sudden, isn’t it ? ” she commented. 
“ I think you have been the first to hear the 
news.” 

“ Gentlemen always do things suddenly,” re- 
marked Georgie, astutely. 

She had no need to have been so discreet. 
Lisbeth had been very cool under the infor- 
mation. An indifferent observer might have 
easily concluded that she cared very little 
about it; that her interest in Hector Anstru- 
thers’ going and comingwas an extremely well- 
controlled feeling. When he came into the 
room himself, a few minutes later, she was 
quite composed enough to touch upon the sub- 
ject with polite regrets. 

“ Aunt Clarissa will positively mourn,” she 
ended, with one of her incomprehensible smiles. 
“ She has been almost radiant during your 
visit.” And there her share in the matter 
seemed to terminate. She said nothing when 
the three old ladies, hearing the news, poured 
forth affectionate plaints, from the first course 
at dinner until the last. She listened compos- 
edly, without remark, though once or twice 
she looked at Georgie with rather an interested 
air. It was her turn to feel curious now, and 
she was curious enough. Georgie blushed 
when she was looked at scrutinizingly, but her 


Miss Crespigny . 3 1 3 

manner was decidedly not that of a girl who 
had just accepted a lover. 

“And/’ said Lisbeth, examining her coolly, 
“ she would not refuse him. She must be fond 
of him ; and if she is fond of him, she is too 
sweet-natured and straightforward to coquet 
with him. And yet — well, it is decidedly puz- 
zling.” 

She found the evening rather a bore, upon 
the whole. How was it that it dragged so, in 
spite of her efforts ? She thought it would 
never come to an end. When, with long-suf- 
fering good-nature, Hector drew out the chess- 
table, and challenged the delighted Miss Clarissa 
to a game, her patience fairly gave way. She 
turned to the piano for refuge, and sang song 
after song, until she could sing no more. Then, 
when Georgie took her place, she made a furtive 
exit, and slipped out through the hall and a side 
door into the garden. What made her turn 
her steps toward Miss Clarissa’s rose-thicket ? 
She did not know. But she went there. There 
she had bidden her boy -lover good-by, and 
broken his heart ; there she had sung her little 
song to Georgie and Hector. On both occa- 
sions it had been warm, and balmy, and moon- 
light ; and now it was warm, and balmy, and 
moonlight again. She stood and looked through 


Miss Crespigny . 


3H 


the trees, catching silvery glimpses of the sea. 
In a minute or so she moved her hand in an 
impatient gesture. 

“ I am sick of it all,” she cried, breaking the 
silence. “ I am sick of the whole world, and of 
myself more than the rest. How I wish I was 
like Aunt Clarissa.” 

She began to wander about restlessly, pulling 
at the roses with no particular object, but be- 
cause she could not keep still. Buds and blos- 
soms, red, and cream, and white, were torn 
from their stems ruthlessly, until her hands 
were full, and then she stopped again, half 
wondering at herself. 


“ What am I thinking of ? ” she said. “ What 
do I want them for? Poor things!” remem- 
bering her parable bitterly. ‘‘They might have 
been very sweet to-morrow.” 

She held the cool, fresh things close up to 
her face, breathing in their fragrance eagerly ; 
and wdien she took them away, their blossoms 
were bright here and there — perhaps with dew; 


certainly with dew, if it was dew that wet 
her fevered cheeks, and softened her eyes so 
strangely. 

Scarcely three minutes later she turned with 
a start, and then stood listening. Some one 
had left the house, and was coming across the 


Miss Crcspigny . 


315 


lawn toward her. She waited a few seconds, 
to make sure that she was not mistaken, and 
then she bent down over a bush, and began 
leisurely to gather more roses, though she was 
overloaded already. 

“ Where is Georgie?” she asked, calmly, of 
the intruder, when he reached her side. 

“ Georgie,” returned a rather constrained 
voice, “is talking to Miss Hetty. Miss Clarissa 
sent me here to remind you that the dew is 
falling, and that y r ou are not strong enough to 
bear the night air. 

“ Miss Clarissa is very good,” Lisbeth an- 
swered. “ And so are you. But dear Miss 
Clarissa has been threatening me with an un- 
timely grave, as the result of night air, ever 
since I was six months old ; so, perhaps, I am 
not so grateful as I ought to be. I love dark- 
ness rather than light, upon the whole, and 
don’t find that it disagrees with me ; perhaps 
because my deeds are evil.” 

“ Perhaps,” dryly. 

For fully two minutes, she gathered her flow- 
ers in silence, while Anstruthers waited, and 
looked at her ; but at last she stood upright, 
and their eyes met. 

“ It is a beautiful night,” she remarked, sen- 
tentiously. 


1 


3 l6 


Miss Crespigny . 


“Yes/ 

“ We have had a great number of lovely 
nights, lately.” 

“ Yes.” 

She busied herself with her roses for a little 
while, to the exclusion of everything else, and 
then she gave it up. 

“Well,” she said, “ suppose we go into the 
house. I can do nothing with them here. The 
fact is, I don’t know why I gathered them, un- 
less it was from an impulse of destructiveness. 
Let us go.” 

“ Stop a moment,” he said ; nay, almost com- 
manded her. 

She paused, not seeming in the least dis- 
turbed, however. She would have cut off her 
right hand, almost, before she would have ex- 
hibited an emotion. 

“ I had a reason of my own for coming 
here,” he went on, “ apart from Miss Cla- 
rissa’s commands. I want to bid you good- 

by ‘” 

“You must be going,” she commented, 
“very early in the morning.” And yet her 
heart was beating like a trip-hammer. 

“It is not that,” was his reply, “though I 
am going early. I had a whim — you remem- 
ber my whim about the song — a fancy that I 


Miss Crespigny. 317 

should like to say my good-by here, where I 
said a good-by once before.” 

“ It is easily said,” answered Lisbeth, and 
held out one of her hands. “ Good-by.” 

He took it, with a pretense at a coolness as 
masterly as her own, but he could not keep it 
up. He gave way to some swift, passionate, 
inexplicable prompting, and in an instant had 
covered it with kisses, had even fiercely kissed 
her slender wrist. 

She snatched it from his grasp, breathless 
with anger, forgetting her resolve to control 
herself. 

“ What do you mean?” she cried. “ You 
are mad. How dare you ? ” 

He drew dack a step, confronting her defi- 
antly. 

“ I do not know what I mean,” he answered, 
‘‘ unless, as you say, I am mad. I think I am 
mad ; so, being a madman, I will not ask you 
to pardon me. It was a farewell. It is over 
now, however. Will you let me take your 
roses, and carry them to the house?” 

She vouchsafed him no answer, but turned 
away, and left him to follow, if he chose. Her 
helplessness against him drove her fairly wild. 
Nothing she could say, or do, would ever wipe 
out the memory of those mad kisses. He 


3i8 


Miss Crespig7iy . 


either loved or despised her utterly; and re- 
membering his manner toward Georgie, she 
could only conclude that he despised her, and 
had offered her a deadly insult. The blood 
shot into her cheeks, like a rush of fire, and 
her eyes blazed ominously. 

“ My dear Lisbeth,” bleated good little Miss 
Clarissa, the moment she saw her, “ you have 
caught fresh cold, I am convinced. You are 
in a high fever.” 

Fever, indeed ! She had never been in such 
a fever in her life ; but it was a fever of anger 
and humiliation. 

“ I think it probable,” she said, seriously, 
“ that I am going to have measles, or scarla- 
tina, Aunt Clarissa. Which would you pre- 
fer?” 

Georgie came up stairs, long after she had 
shut herself in her room, to find her sitting 
by the open window, looking worn out and 
wretched. 

“ Lisbeth,” she ventured, “ is it possible that 
you are going to be ill ? ” 

Probably Georgie Esmond had never been so 
spoken to in her life, as she was when her 
dear Lisbeth turned upon her at this simple 
remark. 

“ Georgie, my dear,” she said, “if you ask 


Miss Crespigny . 


3 IQ 


me such a question again, I believe I shall turn 
you out of the room, and lock the door.” 

Georgie regarded her for a moment in mute 
amazement ; but after that she managed to re- 
cover herself. 

“ I — I beg pardon, Lisbeth,” she faltered, 
and then discreetly turned her attention to the 
performance of her nightly toilet, preparatory 
to going to bed. 

But in the morning, it was Lisbeth to whose 
share the meekness fell. Her mood had 
changed altogether, and she was so astound- 
ingly humble, that Georgie was alarmed. 

“You have more patience with me than I 

j. 

have with myself, Georgie,” she said, “or I 
should know it was not worth my while to say 
a word to you. Do have pity on me. I — well, 
I was out of sorts, or something. And I have 
such a horrible temper.” 

Really, her demon might have departed from 
her that night. She showed no more temper; 
she became almost as amiable as a more com- 
monplace young woman. She made so few 
caustic speeches, that the Misses Tregarthyn 
began to fear that her delicate health had af- 
fected her usual flow of spirits ; and accord- 
ingly mourned over her in secret, not feeling it 
discreet to do so openly. 


320 


Miss Crespigny . 


“ She used to be so spirited/’ sighed Miss 
Hetty, over her sewing, to Georgie. “ Don’t 
you observe an alteration in her, my love ? 
Sister Clarissa, and sister Millicent, and myself 
really do not know what to think. It would be 
such a comfort to us, if she could only be per- 
suaded to see Dr. Puddifoot. He is such a 
dear man, and so extremely talented.” 

“ Because I have been trying to behave my- 
self decently, they think I am ill,” said Lisbeth, 
smiling a little mournfully. “ Just think how I 
must have treated them, Georgie. They are so 
used to my humors, that, if I am not making 
myself actively unpleasant, they fancy it is be- 
cause I have not the strength to do it. If I 
were to snub Aunt Hetty, and snap at Aunt 

Clarissa, I believe they would shed tears of 
• > > 

j°y- 


Miss Crespigyiy . 


3 2T 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

YOU THINK I HAVE A SECRET. 

A WEEK or so after Anstruthers’ departure 
Georgie decided that her visit must come to 
an end. Mamma was not so very well, and 
poor papa had a touch of his old enemy, the 
gout ; and, really she had been away from 
home a long time. Did not Lisbeth think that 
they had better return, to London, even though 
Pen’yllan was still as delightful as ever? 

Then they had a surprise indeed. 

Lisbeth, who had been listening, in a rather 
absent manner, aroused herself to astonish 
them. 

“ I think,” she said, “ that if you do not 
mind making the journey alone, Georgie, I 
should like to stay in Pen’yllan this winter.” 

“In Pen’yllan ? ” cried Georgie. “All win- 
ter, Lisbeth ? ” 

“At Pen’yllan? Here? With us?” cried 
Miss Millicent, and Miss Hetty, and Miss Cla- 
rissa, in chorus. 

“Yes,” answered Lisbeth, in her most non- 
committal fashion. “At Pen’yllan, Aunt 


322 Miss Crespigny . 

Hetty. Here, Aunt Millicent. With you, 
Aunt Clarissa.” 

The Misses Tregarthyn became quite pale. 
They glanced at each other, and shook their 
heads, ominously. This portended something 
dreadful, indeed. 

“My love,” faltered Miss Clarissa. 

“What?” interposed Lisbeth. “Won’t you 
let me stay? Are you tired of me? I told 
you that you would be, you know, before I 
came.” 

“Oh, my dear!” protested Miss Clarissa. 
“ How can you ? Tired. of you? Sister Hetty, 
sister Millicent! Tired of her?” 

“ We only thought, my love, that it would 
be so dull to one used to — to the brilliant vor- 
tex of London society,” ended Miss Millicent, 
rather grandly. 

“ But if I think that it will not,” said Lisbeth. 
“ I am tired of the ‘ brilliant vortex of London 
society. 

She got up from her chair, and went and 
stood by Georgie, at the window, looking out. 

“ Yes,” she said, almost as if speaking to her- 
self, “ I think I should like to stay.” 

The end of it was, that she did stay. She 
wrote to Mrs. Despard, that very day, announ- 
cing her intention of remaining. Georgie, in 


Miss Crespigny. 


323 

packing her trunks, actually shed a few silent 
tears among her ruffs and ribbons. To her 
mind, this was a sad termination to her happy 
visit. She knew that it must mean something 
serious, that there must be some powerful mo- 
tive at the bottom of such a resolution. If 
Lisbeth would only not be so reserved. If it 
was only a little easier to understand her. 

“ We shall miss you very much, Lisbeth,” 
she ventured, mournfully. 

“ Not more than I shall miss you,” an- 
swered Lisbeth, who at the time stood near, 
watching her as she knelt before the box she 
was packing. 

Georgie paused in her task, to look up doubt- 
fully. 

“ Then why will you do it ? she said. “ You 
— you must have a reason.” 

“ Yes,” said Lisbeth, “ I have a reason.” 

The girl’s eyes still appealed to her ; so she 
went on, with a rather melancholy smile : 

“ I have two reasons — perhaps more. Pen’yl- 
lan agrees with me, and I do not want to go 
back to town yet. I am going to take a rest. 
I must need one, or Aunt Clarissa would not 
find so much fault with my appearance. I 
don’t want to ‘ go off on my looks,’ before my 
time, and you know they are always telling 


324 Miss Crespigny . 

me I am pale and thin. Am I pale and thin, 
Georgie ? ” 

“Yes,” confessed Georgie, “you are,” and 
she gave her a troubled look. 

“ Then,” returned Lisbeth, “ there is all the 
more reason that I should rusticate. Perhaps, by 
the spring, I shall be red and fat, like Miss Rosa- 
mond Puddifoot,” with a little laugh. “And 
I shall have taken to tracts, and soup-kitchens, 
and given up the world, and wear a yellow bon- 
net, and call London a ‘vortex of sinful plea- 
sure,’ as she does. Why, my dear Georgie, 
what is the matter?” 

The fact was, that a certain incongruity in 
her beloved Lisbeth’s looks and tone, had so 
frightened Georgie, and touched her susceptible 
heart, that the tears had rushed to her eyes, 
and she was filled with a dolorous pity. 

“ You are not — you are not happy,” she cried 
all at once. “You are not, or you would not 
speak in that queer, satirical way. I wish you 
would be a little — a little more — kind, Lisbeth.” 

Lisbeth’s look was a positively guilty one. 

“ Kind ! ” she exclaimed. “ Kind, Georgie ! ” 

H aving gone so far, Georgie could not easily 
draw back, and was fain to go on, though she 
became conscious that she had placed herself 
in a very trying position. 


Miss Crespigny . 


3^5 


“ It is not kind to keep everything to your- 
self so closely,” she said, tremulously. “ As 
if we did not care for you, or could not com- 
prehend ” 

She stopped, because Lisbeth frightened her 
again. She became so pale, that it was impos- 
sible to say anything more. Her great, dark 
eyes dilated, as if with a kind of horror, at some- 
thing. 

“You — you think I have a secret,” she in- 
terrupted her, with a hollow-sounding laugh. 
“ And you are determined to make a heroine 
out of me, instead of allowing me to enjoy my 
‘nerves’ in peace. You don’t comprehend 
‘nerves,’ that is clear. You are running at a 
red rag, Georgie, my dear. It is astonishing 
how prone you good, tender-hearted people 
are to run at red rags, and toss, and worry 
them.” 

It was plain that she would never betray 
herself. She would hold at arm’s-length even 
the creature who loved her best, and was most 
worthy of her confidence. It was useless to 
try to win her to any revelation of her feelings. 

Georgie fell to at her packing again, with 
a very melancholy consciousness of the fact, 
that she had done no good by losing control 
over her innocent emotions, and might have 


326 


Miss Crespigny . 


done harm. It had pained her inexpressibly 
to see that quick dread of self-betrayal, which 
had announced itself in the sudden loss of 
color, and the odd expression in her friend’s 
eyes. 

“ She does not love me as I love her,” was 
her pathetic, mental conclusion. “ If she did, 
she would not be so afraid of me.” 

When Lisbeth bade her good-by, at the lit- 
tle railway station, the girl’s heart quite failed 
her. 

“ What shall I say to mamma and papa ? ” 
she asked. 

“Tell them that Pen’yllan agrees with me so 
well that I don’t like to leave it for the present,” 
was Lisbeth’s answer. “ And tell Mrs. Esmond 
that I will write to her myself.” 

“And — ” in timid desperation — “and Hec- 
tor, Lisbeth ? ” 

“ Hector?” rather sharply. “Why Hector? 
What has he to do with the matter? But 
stay ! ” shrugging her shoulders. “ I suppose 
it would be only civil. Tell him — tell him — 
that Aunt Clarissa sends her love, and hopes 
he will take care of his lungs.” 

And yet, though this irreverent speech was 
her last, and she made it in her most malicious 
manner, the delicate, dark face, and light, small 


Miss Crespigny . 


327 


figure, had a strangely desolate look to Georgie, 
as, when the train bore her away, she caught 
her last farewell glimpse of them on the plat- 
form of the small station. 

Lisbeth stood before her mirror, that night, 
slowly brushing up her hair, and feeling the 
silence of the small chamber acutely. 

“ It would never have done,” she said to her- 
self. “ It would never have done at all. This 
is the better way— r-better, by far.” 

But it was hard enough to face, and it was 
fantastic enough to think that she had really 
determined to face it. In a minute or so she 
sat down, with her brush in her hand, and her 
hair loose upon her shoulders, to confront the 
facts once more. She was going to spend her 
winter at Pen’yllan. She had given up the 
flesh-pots of Egypt. She was going to break- 
fast at eight, dine at two when there was no 
company, take five o’clock tea, and spend the 
evening with the Misses Tregarthyn. She 
would stroll in the garden, walk on the beach, 
and take Miss Clarissa’s medicines meekly. At 
this point a new view of the case presented 
itself to her, and she began to laugh. Mustard 
baths, and Dr. Puddifoot’s prescriptions, in 
incongruous connection with her own personal 
knowledge of things, appeared all at once so 


3 2 8 


Miss Crespigny . 


ludicrous, that they got the better of her, and 
she laughed until she found herself crying; and 
then, angry as she was at her own weakness, 
the tears got the better of her, too, for a short 
time. If she had never been emotional before, 
she was emotional enough in these days. She 
could not pride herself upon her immovability 
now. She felt, constantly, either passionate 
anger against herself, or passionate contempt, 
or a passionate eagerness to retrieve her lost 
self-respect. What could she do ? How could 
she rescue herself? This would not do ! This 
would not do ! She must make some new 
struggle ! This sort of thing she was saying 
feverishly from morning until night. 

Secretly she had almost learned to detest 
Pen’yllan. Pen’yllan, she told herself, had 
been the cause of all her follies ; but it was 
safer at present than London. If she stayed 
at Pen’yllan long enough, surely she could 
wear herself out, or rather wear out her fan- 
cies. A less resolute young woman would, in 
all likelihood, have trifled weakly with her dan- 
ger ; but it was not so with Lisbeth. She had 
not trifled with it from the first : she had held 
herself stubbornly aloof from any little self- 
indulgence ; and now she was harder upon 
herself than ever. She would have died cheer- 


Miss Crespigny . 


329 


fully, rather than have betrayed herself, and if 
she could die, surely she could endure a dull 
winter. 

Her moral condition was so far improved, 
however, that she did not visit her small mise- 
ries upon her aunts, as she would have done 
in the olden days. Her behavior was really 
creditable, under the circumstances. She 
played chess with Miss Clarissa in the evening, 
or read aloud, or sung for them, and began to 
take a whimsical pleasure in their delight at 
her condescension. They were so easily de- 
lighted, that she felt many a sting of shame at 
her former delinquencies. She had an almost 
morbid longing “ to be good,” like Georgie, 
and she practiced this being “ good ” upon the 
three spinsters, with a persistence at which she 
herself both laughed and cried when she was 
alone. Her first letter to Georgie puzzled the 
girl indescribably, and yet touched her some- 
how. She, who believed her beloved Lisbeth 
to be perfect among women, could not quite 
understand the psychological crisis throu gh 
which she was passing, and yet could not fail 
to feel that something unusual was happening. 

“ I take Aunt Clarissa’s medicine with a mild 
regularity which alarms her,” the letter an- 
nounced. •“ She thinks I must be going into a 


330 


Miss Crespigny . 


consumption, and tearfully consults Dr. Puddi- 
foot in private. The cook is ordered to pre- 
pare particularly nourishing soups for dinner, 
and if my appetite is not something startling, 
everybody turns pale. And yet all this does 
not seem to me as good a joke as it would 
have done years ago. I see another side to it. 
I wonder how it is that they can be so fond of 
me. For my part, I am sure I could never 
have been fond of Lisbeth Crespigny.” 


Miss Crespigny . 


33i 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AND THAT WAS THE END OF IT. 

The roses fell, one by one, in Miss Clarissa’s 
flower beds, and so at last did the palest au- 
tumn-bloom ; the leaves dropped from the 
trees, and the winds from the sea began to blow 
across the sands, in chilly gusts. But Lisbeth 
stayed bravely on. Rainy days dragged by 
wearily enough, and cold ones made their ap- 
pearance, but she did not give up even when 
Mrs. Despard wondered, and Georgie implored 
in weekly epistles. The winter routine of the 
Tregarthyn household was not exciting, but it 
was a sort of safeguard. Better dullness than 
something worse ! Perhaps, in time, by spring, 
it might be different. And yet she could not 
say that she found her state of mind improv- 
ing. And as to her body — well, Miss Clarissa 
might well sigh over her in secret. If she had 
been pale and thin before, she had not gained 
flesh and color. She persisted in her long 
walks in desperation, and came home after 
them, looking haggard and hollow-eyed. She 
wandered about the garden, in self-defense, and 
was no less tired. She followed Dr. Puddi- 


33 ” 


M iss Crespigny . 


foot’s directions to the letter, and, to the 
Misses Tregarthyn’s dismay, was not improved. 
In fact, as that great man, Dr. Puddifoot, ob- 
served, “ Something was radically wrong.” 

It was an unequal, miserable-enough strug- 
gle, but it had its termination ; and, like all 
such terminations, it was an abrupt, unexpect- 
ed, almost fantastic one. Lisbeth had never 
thought of such an end to her self-inflicted pen- 
ance. No such possibility had presented itself 
to her mind. It was not her way to romance, 
and she had confined herself to realities. 

Sitting at her bedroom window, one chill, 
uncomfortable December day, she arrived at a 
fanciful caprice. It was as raw and miserable 
a day as one would, or rather would not, wish 
to see. The wind blew over the sea in gusts, 
the gulls flew languidly under the gray sky, a 
few dead leaves swirled about in eddies in the 
road, and yet this caprice took possession of 
Lisbeth, as she looked out, and appreciated the 
perfection of desolateness. Since Georgie had 
left Pen’yllan, she had never once been near 
the old trysting-place. Her walks had always 
been in the opposite direction, and now it sud- 
denly occurred to her, that she would like to 
go and see how things would look in her pre- 
sent mood. In five minutes from the time the 


Miss Crespigny . 


333 


fancy seized her, Miss Clarissa caught a glimpse 
of something through the parlor window, which 
made her utter an exclamation : 

“ Lisbeth ! ” she said. “ Out again, and on 
such a day ! Dear me ! I do trust she is well 
wrapped up.” 

Lispeth made her way against the damp, 
chill wind, with a touch of positively savage 
pleasure in her own discomfort. The sands 
were wet, and unpleasant to walk on ; and she 
was not sorry. What did it matter? She was 
in the frame of mind to experience a sort of 
malicious enjoyment of outward miseries. The 
tryst looked melancholy enough when she 
reached it. She made her way to the nook, 
behind the sheltering rocks, and stood there, 
looking out to sea. She had not expected to 
find the place wearing its summer aspect, but 
she was scarcely prepared to face such desolate- 
ness. Everything was gray — gray tossing sea, 
gray screaming gulls, gray lowering sky. 

“ It would have been better to have stayed 
at home,” she said. 

Still she could not make up her mind to turn 
back at once, and lingered a little, leaning 
against a rock, shivering, and feeling dreary ; 
and so it was that the man who was approach- 
ing first caught sight of her figure. 


334 


Miss Crespigny . 


Lisbeth did not see this man. She did not 
care to see either man or woman, at pre- 
sent. The gulls suited her better than hu- 
man beings, and she believed herself to be 
utterly alone, until footsteps upon the sand, 
quite near, made her turn with an impatient 
start. 

The man — he was not a yard from her side — 
raised his hat and stood still. The man was 
Hector Anstruthers. 

For a moment neither uttered a word. Lis- 
beth thought her heart must have stopped 
beating. She had turned cold as marble. 
Alien she could control herself sufficiently to 
think at all, she thought of Georgie. 

“ What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “ Is 
somebody ill ? Georgie?” 

“ Georgie is quite well,” he answered. 

Then he came close, and held out his hand, 
with a strange, melancholy smile. 

“ I ask pardon for alarming you,” he said. 
“ I ask pardon for coming without an excuse ; 
but I have no excuse. Won't you shake 
hands with me, Lisbeth?” 

She got through the ceremony as quickly as 
possible, and then drew back, folding her shawl 
about her. She was shivering with something, 
besides cold. If she had only been safe at 


Miss Crespigny . 


335 


home. If nobody was in danger, what on 
earth had he come for? 

“ I was a little startled,” she said. “ Pen’yl- 
lan is not very attractive to people, as a rule, 
in winter, and it seemed the most natural thing 
that Georgie was ill, and had sent you to me.” 
Then, after a little pause, and a sidelong glance 
at him, “You look as if you had been ill your- 
self.” 

He certainly did. He was thin, and hag- 
gard, and care-worn. His eyes were danger- 
ously bright, and he had a restless air. He 
was not so sublime a dandy, either, as he had 
been ; there was even a kind of negligence 
about him. 

“ Aunt Clarissa must have been very much 
alarmed when she saw you,” Lisbeth pro- 
ceeded, trying to get up a creditable smile. 

“ I have not seen Miss Clarissa,” he answered. 
“ I came here first.” 

This was so ominous, that Lisbeth suc- 
cumbed. She knew, when he said this, that 
he did not intend to keep up appearances. 
But she made one more poor effort. 

“ Then, perhaps, we had better go home,” 
she remarked. 

“No,” he returned, quickly. “I have some- 
thing to say.” 


33 6 


Miss Crespigny . 


She felt herself losing strength. But what 
did it matter, let him say what he would? 
Perhaps it was something about Georgie. She 
had a dreary feeling that she was ready for 
anything. 

“ Go on ! ” she said. 

“ Oh ! ” he cried, in bitter, impatient re- 
signation of her stoicism. “ Arm yourself 
against me ; I know you will do that. Sneer 
at my folly ; I am prepared for that, too. But 
I shall speak. It is Fate. I am a fool, but I 
must speak.” 

“ Was it to say this that you came here ? ” 
interposed Lisbeth. 

“I came because I could not stay away. You 
are my Fate, I tell you,” almost angrily. “ You 
will not let me rest. When I kissed your hands, 
that last night, I gave myself up to my mad- 
ness. I had tried to persuade myself that I 
had no love for you ; but that cured me, and 
showed me how I had deceived myself. I 
have never ceased to love you, from the first ; 
and you ” 

His words died upon his lips. She looked 
as he had never seen her look before. She 
leaned against the rock, as if she needed sup- 
port. Suddenly her eyes and lashes were wet, 
and she began to tremble slightly. He checked 


M iss Cresp igny . 33 7 

himself, full of swift remorse. What a rough 
brute he was ! 

“ Don’t ! ” he said. “ I did not mean to 
frighten you.” 

She lifted her eyes, piteously ; her lips 
parted, as if she was going to speak ; but she 
did not speak. She was even weaker than she 
had thought. She had never been so helpless 
and shaken before. She shrank from him, and 
drooping her face upon the rock, burst into 
hysterical tears. 

He did not pause to ask himself what it 
meant. He did not understand women’s 
nerves. He only comprehended that she had 
given way, that everything was changed, that 
she was unstrung and weeping. In a moment 
he had her in his arms, exclaiming, passionately : 

“ Lisbeth ! Lisbeth ! ” And then the little 
straw hat, with its blue ribbon, slipping away 
from the small, pale face, that lay upon his 
breast, he bent and covered it, this small, pale, 
tear-wet face, with reckless kisses. 

For the moment he did not care what came 
next, nor what doom he brought upon himself, 
he was so mad with long pent-up love and 
misery. He found the little hand under the 
shawl, too, and fell to kissing that, also, and 
would not let it go. 


33 ^ 


Miss Crespigny. 


“ Don’t be cruel to me, Lisbeth ! ” he pleaded, 
when she tried to draw it away ; and she was 
forced to let it remain. “ Don’t be cruel to 
me,” he said, and still held this hand, when 
she released herself at last, and stood up, mis- 
erable and shame-faced, yet far less miserable 
than she had been. 

“ It — it is you who are cruel! ” she faltered. 
“ What am I to say to you ! You have left 
me nothing to say.” 

She hung back, half afraid of his vehe- 
mence. He had begun with bitter ravings, 
and in five minutes had ended by crush- 
ing her in his arms. It was her punishment 
that she should be so humbled and brought 
down. 

“ Say nothing,” he cried. “ Let me say all. 
I love you. It is Fate.” 

She could not help seeing the fantastic side 
of this, and she smiled, a little, daring smile, 
though she hung her head. 

“ Are you — proposing to me? ” she ventured, 
hoping to retrieve herself. 

He could not stand that, but she would not 
let him burst out again, and leave her no chance 
to assert her privilege to struggle at retaining 
the upper hand. 

“You told me that you came in spite of 


Miss Crespigny. 


339 


yourself, because you could not stay away. 
Was it true? ” she asked. 

“Yes.” 

She could not help feeling a glow of triumph, 
and it shone in her eyes. 

“ I am glad of that,” she said. “ I am glad. 
It saves me so much.” 

“And I may stay?” he exclaimed, in his 
old, impetuous fashion. “ Lisbeth ” 

Though he held her hand fast, she managed 
to stoop down, under pretense of rescuing the 
blue-ribboned hat from the sand. 

“You need not go,” she answered. 

And that was the end of it. 

The three Misses Tregarthyn looked at each 
in blank dismay, when these two walked into 
the parlor, an hour after. But Hector grasped 
his nettle with a matter-of-fact boldness, for 
which Lisbeth intensely admired him in secret. 

“ I went out on the beach to find Miss 
Crespigny, and I found her,” he announced. 
“ Here she is, Miss Clarissa, Miss Millicent, 
Miss Hetty! She has promised to marry me. 
Oblige us with your blessing.” 

The trio fell upon their beloved Lisbeth, and 
embraced, as they had done on the previous 
occasion ; but this time she bore it better. 

That night Lisbeth sat up until one o’clock, 


340 


Miss Crespigny . 


writing a long letter to Georgie Esmond, and 
trying, in a strangely softened and penitent 
mood, to be open and straightforward for once. 

“ I am going to marry Hector Anstruthers, 
and try to be better,” she wrote. “You know 
what I mean, when I say ‘ better.' I mean 
that I want to make Lisbeth Anstruthers a far 
different creature from Lisbeth Crespigny. Do 
you think I ever can be a ‘ good ’ woman, 
Georgie — like you and your mother? If I ever 
am one, it will be you two whom I must thank.” 
And as she wrote this, she shed not unhappy 
tears over it. 

“ Perhaps,” she said, “ Love will make me 
as tender as other women.” 

And this Love did. 


THEO 


) ) 
> \ o 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Codes Received 

JAN 25 1907 

Cepyriffht Entry 

W UST ,4 f°2 

4m ss a, xxc,, no. 

COPY B. ' 


“THEO.” 


CHAPTER I. 

AN UNWORN TROUSSEAU. 

A HEAVY curtain of yellow fog rolled and 
drifted over the waste of beach, and rolled and 
drifted over the sea, and beneath the curtain 
the tide was coming in at Downport, and two 
pair of eyes were watching it. Both pair of 
eyes watched it from the same place, namely, 
from the shabby sitting-room of the shabby 
residence of David North, Esq., lawyer; and 
both watched it without any motive, it seemed, 
unless that the dull, gray waves and their dull 
moaning, were not out of accord with the 
watchers’ feelings. One pair of eyes — a youth- 
ful, discontented black pair — watched it stead- 
ily, never turning away, as their owner stood 
in the deep, old-fashioned window, with both 
elbows resting upon the broad sill ; but the 
other pair only glanced up now and then, 


344 


u 


Theo . 


?» 


almost furtively, from the piece of work Miss 
Pamela North, spinster, held in her slender, 
needle-worn fingers. 

There had been a long silence in the shabby 
sitting-room for some time — and there was not 
often silence there. Three rampant, strong- 
lunged boys, and as many talkative school-girls, 
made the house of David North, Esq., rather a 
questionable paradise. But to-day, being half- 
holiday, the boys were out on the beach dig- 
ging sand-caves, and getting up piratical bat- 
tles and excursions with the bare-legged urchins 
so numerous in the fishermen’s huts ; and Jo- 
anna and Elinor had been absent all day, so 
the room left to Theo and her elder sister was 
quiet for once. 

It was Miss Pamela herself who broke the 
stillness. 

“Theo,” she said, with elder-sister-like as- 
perity, “ it appears to me that you might find 
something better to do than to stand with your 
arms folded, as you have been doing for the 
last half hour. There is a whole basketful of 
the boy’s socks that need mending, and ” 

“ Pam ! ” interrupted Theo, desperately, turn- 
ing over her shoulder a face more like the face 


-The or 


345 


of some young Spanish gypsy than that of a 
poor English solicitor’s daughter. “ Pam, I 
should really like to know if life is ever worth 
having, if everybody’s life is like ours, or if there 
are really such people as we read of in books.” 

“You have been reading some ridiculous 
novel again,” said Pamela, sententiously. “ If 
you would be a little more sensible and less 
romantic, Theodora, it would be a great deal 
better for all of us. What have you been 
reading ? ” 

The gypsy face turned to the window again, 
half-impatiently. 

“ I have been reading nothing to-day,” was 
the answer. “ I should think you knew that — 
on Saturday, with everything to do, and the 
shopping to attend to, and mamma scolding 
every one because the butcher’s bill can’t be 
paid. I was reading Jane Eyre, though, last 
night. Did you ever read Jane Eyre, Pa- 
mela ? ” 

“ I always have too much to do in attending 
to my duty,” said Pamela, “ without wasting 
my time in that manner. I should never find 
time to read Jane Eyre in twenty years. I 
wish I could.” 


346 


“ The or 


“ I wish you could, too,” said Theo, medi- 
tatively. “ I wish there was no such thing as 
duty. Duty always appears to me to be the 
very thing we don’t want to do.” 

“ Just at present, it is your duty to attend to 
those socks of Ralph and Arthur’s,” put in 
Pamela, dryly. “ Perhaps you had better see 
to it at once, as tea will be ready soon, and you 
will have to cut bread for the children.” 

The girl turned away from the window with 
a sigh. Her discussions on subjects of this 
kind always ended in the same unsatisfactory 
manner; and really her young life was far from 
being a pleasant one. As the next in age to 
Pamela, though so many years lay between 
them, a hundred petty cares fell on her girlish 
shoulders, and tried her patience greatly with 
their weight, sometimes. And in the hard 
family struggle for every-day necessities there 
was too much of commonplace reality to admit 
of much poetry. The wearisome battling with 
life’s needs had left the mother, as it leaves 
thousands of women, haggard, careworn, and 
not too smooth in disposition. There was no 
romance about her. She had fairly forgotten 
her girlhood, it seemed to lie so far behind ?* 


f 


“Theo” 347 

and even the unconquerable mother-love, that 
gave rise to her anxieties, had a touch of hard- 
ness about it. And Pamela had caught some- 
thing of the sharp, harassed spirit too. But 
Theo had a secret sympathy for Pamela, though 
her sister never suspected it. Pamela had a 
love-story, and in Theo’s eyes this one touch 
of forlorn romance was the silver lining to 
many clouds. Ten years ago, when Pamela 
had been a pretty girl, she had had a lover — 
“ poor Arthur Brunwalde ” Theo always men- 
tally designated him ; and only a week before 
her wedding-day, death had ended her love- 
story forever. Poor Pamela ! was Theo’s 
thought — to have loved like Jane Eyre, and 
Agnes Wickfield, and Lord Byron, and to have 
been so near release from the bread-and-butter 
cutting, and squabbling, and then to have lost 
all. Poor Pamela, indeed ! So the lovely, im- 
pulsive, romance-loving younger sister cher- 
ished an interest in Pamela’s thin, sharp face 
and unsympathizing voice, and in picturing 
the sad romance of her youth was always se- 
cretly regardful of the past in her trials of the 
present. 

As she turned over the socks in the basket, 


343 


“ Theo r 


she glanced up now and then at Pamela’s face, 
which was bent over her work. It had been a 
pretty face, but now there were faint lines upon 
it here and there; the features, once delicate, 
were sharpened, the blue eyes were faded, and 
the blonde hair faded also. It was a face 
whose youth had been its beauty, and its youth 
had fled with Pamela North’s happiness. Her 
life had ended in its prime ; nay, not ended, 
for the completion had never come — it was to 
be a work unfinished till its close. Poor Ar- 
thur Brunwalde indeed ! 

A few more silent stitches, and then the 
work slipped from Theo’s fingers into her lap. 

“ Pam,” she said, “ were you ever at Lady 
Throckmorton’s ? ” 

A faint color showed itself on Pamela’s faded 
face. 

“ Yes,” she answered, sharply. “ I was once. 
What nonsense is running in your mind now, 
for goodness’ sake?” 

Theo flushed up to her forehead, no half 
flush ; she actually glowed all over, her eyes 
catching a light where her delicate dark skin 
caught the dusky red. 

“ Don’t be cross, Pam,” she said, appealingly. 


“ Theo 


349 


“ I can’t help it. The letter she sent to mam- 
ma made me think of it. Oh, Pam ! if I could 
only have accepted the invitation.” 

“ But you can’t,” said Pam, concisely. “ So 
you may as well let the matter rest.” 

“ I know I can’t,” Theo returned, her quaint 
resignation telling its own story of previous 
disappointments. “ I have nothing to wear, 
you know, and, of course, I couldn’t go there, 
of all places in the world, without something 

• y y 

nice. 

There was another silence after this. Theo 
had gone back to her work with a sigh, and 
Miss Pamela was stitching industriously. She 
was never idle, and always taciturn ; and on 
this occasion her mind was fully occupied. 
She was thinking of Lady Throckmorton’s in- 
vitation too. Her ladyship was a half-sister 
of their father’s, and from the height of her 
grandeur magnanimously patronizing now and 
then. It was during her one visit to London, 
under this relative’s patronage, that Pamela 
had met Arthur Brunwalde, and it was through 
her that the match had been made. But when 
Arthur died, and she found that Pamela was 
fixed in her determination to make a sacrifice 


350 


“ Theo r 


of her youth on the altar of her dead love, 
Lady Throckmorton lost patience. It was 
absurd, she said ; Mr. North could not afford 
it, and if Pamela persisted, she would wash 
her hands of the whole affair. But Pamela 
was immovable, and, accordingly, had never 
seen her patroness since. It so happened, 
however, that her ladyship had suddenly rec- 
ollected Theo, whose gypsy face had once 
struck her fancy, and the result of the sudden 
recollection was another invitation. Her let- 
ter had arrived that very morning at breakfast- 
time, and had caused some sensation. A visit 
to London, under such auspices, was more 
than the most sanguine had ever dared to 
dream of. 

“ I wish I was Theo/’ Joanna had grumbled. 
“ She always gets the lion’s share of every- 
thing, because Elin and I are a bit younger 
than she is.” 

And Theo had glowed up to her soft, inno- 
cent eyes, and neglected the bread-and-butter 
cutting, to awaken a moment later to sudden 
despair. 

“ But — but I have nothing fit to wear, mam- 
ma,” she said, in anguished tones* 


“ The or 



“ No,” answered Mrs. North, two or three 
new lines showing themselves on her harassed 
forehead ; “ and we can’t afford to buy any- 
thing. You can’t go, Theo.” 

And so the castle which had towered so pro- 
misingly in the air a moment ago, was dashed 
to the dust with one touch of shabby gentili- 
ty’s tarnished wand. The glow died out of 
Theo’s face, and she went back to her bread- 
and-butter cutting, with a soreness of disap- 
pointment which was, nevertheless, not with- 
out its own desperate resignation. This was 
why she had watched the tide come in with 
such a forlorn sense of sympathy with the dull 
sweep of the gray waves, and their dull, creep- 
ing moan ; this v r as why she had been rash 
enough to hope for a crumb of sympathy even 
from Pamela ; and this also was why, in de- 
spairing of gaining it, she bent herself to her 
unthankful labor again, and patched and 
darned until the tide had swept back again 
under the curtain of fog, and there was no 
more light, even for the stern taskmaster, pov- 
erty. 

The silence was effectually broken in upon 
after this. As soon as the street-lamps began 


352 


“ Theo .” 


to twinkle in the murkiness outside, the boys 
made their appearance — Ralph, and Arthur, 
and Jack — all hungry, and disheveled, and, of 
course, all in an uproar. They had dug a cave 
on the shore, and played smugglers all the 
evening ; and one fellow had brought out a 
real cutlass and a real pistol, that belonged to 
his father, and they had played fighting the 
coast-guard, and they were as hungry as the 
dickens now ; and was tea ready, and wouldn’t 
Pam let them have some strawberry-jam. 

Pamela laid her work aside, and went out 
of the room, and then Ralph, who was in the 
habit of patronizing Theo occasionally, came 
to his favorite corner and sat down, his rough 
hands clasped around his knees, boy-fashion. 

“ I say, Theo,” he begun, “ I wonder how 
much it would cost a fellow to buy a cutlass — 
a real one ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Theo answered, indiffer- 
ently. “ I never bought a cutlass, Ralph.” 

“ No, of course, you never did. What would 
a girl want with a cutlass? But couldn’t you 
guess now — just give a guess. Would it cost 
a pound ? ” 

“ I daresay it would,” Theo managed to re- 


“ The or 


353 


ply, with a decent show of interest. “ A good 
one.” 

“Well, I’d want a good one,” said Ralph, 
meditatively ; “ but, if it would cost a pound, 
I shall never have one. I say, Theo, we never 
do get what we want at this house, do we?” 

“ Not often,” said Theo, a trifle bitterly. 

Ralph looked up at her. 

“ Look here,” he said, sagaciously. “ I know 
what you are thinking of. I can tell by your 
eyes. You’re thinking about having to stay 
at home from Lady Throckmorton’s, and it is 
a shame, too. If you are a girl, you could 
have enjoyed yourself in your girl’s way. I’d 
rather go to their place in Lincolnshire, where 
old Throckmorton does his hunting. The gov- 
ernor says that a fellow that was a good shot 
could bag as much game as he could carry, 
and it wouldn’t take long to shoot either. I 
can aim first rate with a bow and arrow. But 
that isn’t what you want, is it ? You want to 
go to London, and have lots of dresses and 
things. Girls always do ; but that isn’t my 
style.” 

“Ah, Ralph!” Theo broke out, her eyes 
filling all at once. “ I wish you wouldn’t ! I 
2 


354 


“ Theor 


can’t bear to hear it. Just think of how I 
might have enjoyed myself, and then to think 
that — that 1 can’t go, and that I shall never 
live any other life than this ! ” 

Ralph opened his round Saxon eyes, in a 
manner slightly expressive of general dissatis- 
faction. 

“ Why, you’re crying!” he said. “ Con- 
found crying, you know. I don’t cry because 
I can't go to Lincolnshire. You girls are al- 
ways crying about something. Joanna and 
Eiin cry if their shoes are shabby, or their 
gloves burst out. A fellow never thinks of 
crying. If he can’t get the thing he wants, 
he pitches in, and does without, or else makes 
something out of wood that looks like it.” 

Theo said no more. A summons from the 
kitchen came to her just then. Pam was busy 
with the tea-service, and the boys were hun- 
gry — so she must go and help. 

Pamela glanced up at her sharply as she 
entered, but she did not speak. She had 
borne disappointments often enough, and had 
lived over them to become seemingly a trifle 
callous to their bitterness in others, and, as I 
have said, she was prone to silence. But it 


“ The or 


355 


may be that she was not so callous after all, 
for at least Theo fancied that her occasional 
speeches were less sharp, and certainly she 
uttered no reproof to-night. She was grave 
enough, however, and even more silent than 
usual, as she poured out the tea for the boys. 
A shadow of thoughtfulness rested on her 
thin, sharp face, and the faint, growing lines 
were almost deepened ; but she did not 
“snap,” as the children called it; and Theo 
was thankful for the change. 

It was not late when the children went to 
bed, but it was very late when Pamela followed 
them ; and when she went up stairs, she was 
so pre-occupied as to appear almost absent- 
minded. She went to her room, and locked 
the door, after her usual fashion ; but that she 
did not retire was evident to one pair of listen- 
ing ears at least. In the adjoining bedroom, 
where the girls slept, Theo lay awake, and 
could hear her every movement. She was walk- 
ing to and fro, and the sounds of opening 
drawers and turned keys came through the 
wall every moment. Pamela had unaccount- 
able secret ways, Joanna always said. Her 
room was a sanctuary, which the boldest did 


356 


“ Theo." 


not dare to violate lightly. There were closets 
and boxes there, whose contents were reserved 
for her own eyes alone, and questions regard- 
ing them seldom met with any satisfactory 
answer. She was turning over these posses- 
sions to-night, Theo judged, from the sounds 
proceeding from her chamber. To be truth- 
ful, Theo had some curiosity about the mat- 
ter, though she never asked any questions. 
The innate delicacy which prompted her to 
reverence the forlorn aroma of long-withered 
romance about the narrow life had restrained 
her. But to-night she was so wide-awake, and 
Joanna and Elin were so fast asleep, that 
every movement forcing itself upon her ear, 
made her more wide-awake still. The turning 
of keys, and unlocking of drawers, roused her to 
wonder. Poor Pam ! What dead memories 
and coffined hopes was she bringing out to 
the dim light of her solitary candle ! Was it 
possible that she ever cried over them a little 
when there was no one to see her relaxing 
mood ? Poor Pam ! Theo sighed again, and 
was just deciding to go to sleep, if possible, 
when she heard a door open, which was surely 
Pamela’s, and feet crossing the narrow corridor, 


“ Theor 


357 


which was surely Pamela’s own, and then a 
sharp, yet soft, tap on the door, and a voice 
which could have been no other than Pamela’s, 
under any possibility. 

“ Theo ! ” it said, “I want you for a short 
time. Get up.” 

Theo was out upon the floor, and had opened 
the door in an instant, wider awake than ever. 

“ Throw something over you,” said Pamela, 
in the dry tone that always sounded almost 
severe. “You will take cold if you don’t. 
Put on a shawl or something, and come into 
my room.” 

•» 

Theodora caught up a shawl, and, stepping 
across the landing, stood in the light, the flare 
of the candle making a queer, lovely picture of 
her. The shawl she had wrapped carelessly 
over her white night-dress was one of Lady 
Throckmorton’s gracious gifts ; and although 
it had been worn by every member of the fam- 
ily in succession, and was frayed, and torn, and 
forlorn enough in broad daylight, by the un- 
certain Rembrandt glare of the chamber-can- 
dle, its gorgeous palm-leaf pattern and soft 
folds made a by no means unpicturesque or 
unbecoming drapery. 


358 


“ Theo." 


“ Shut the door,” said Pamela. “ I want to 
speak to you.” 

Theo turned to obey, wonderingly, but, as 
she did so, her eyes fell upon something which 
made her fairly start, and this something was 
nothing less than the contents of the opened 
boxes and closets. Some of said contents were 
revealed through raised lids ; but some of them 
were lying upon the bed, and the sight of them 
made the girl catch her breath. 

She had never imagined such wealth — for it 
seemed quite like wealth to her. Where had it 
all come from ? There were piles of pretty, 
lace-trimmed garments, boxes of handkerchiefs, 
ribbons and laces, and actually a number of 
dresses, of whose existence she had never 
dreamed — dresses quaint enough in fashion, 
but still rich and elaborate. 

“ Why, Pam ! ” she exclaimed, “ whose are 
they? Why have you never ” 

Pamela stopped her with an abrupt gesture. 

“ They are mine,” she said. “ I have had 
them for years, ever since Arthur — Mr. Brim- 
walde died. They were to have been my bridal 
trousseau, and most of them were presents 

7 i 

from Lady Throckmorton, who was very kind 


“ Theor 


359 


to me then. Of course, you know well enough,” 
with dry bitterness, “ I should never have had 
them otherwise. I thought I would show them 
to you to-night, and offer them to you. They 
may be of use just now.” 

She stopped and cleared her throat here, 
with an odd, strained sound : and before she 
went on, she knelt down before one of the open 
trunks, and began to turn over its contents. 

“ I wish you to go to Lady Throckmorton’s,” 
she said, speaking without looking at the 
amazed young face at her side. “ The life 
here is a weary one for a girl to lead, without 
any change, and the visit may be a good thing 
for you in many ways. My visit to Lady 
Throckmorton’s would have made me a happy 
woman, if death had not come between me and 
my happiness. I know I am not at fault in 
saying this to you. I mean it in a manner a 
girl can scarcely understand — I mean that I 
want to save you from the life you must lead 
if you do not go away from here.” 

Her hands were trembling, her voice, cold, 
as it usually was, trembled too, and the mo- 
ment she paused, the amazed, picturesque 
young figure swooped down upon her as it 


36 ° 


“ Theo.” 


were, falling upon its knees, flinging its white- 
robed arms about her, and burying her in an 
unexpected confusion of black hair and orien- 
tal shawl, showering upon her loving, passion- 
ate little caresses. For the first time in her 
life, Theo was not secretly awed by her. 

“ Why, Pam!” she cried, the tears running 
down her cheeks. “ Dear, old, generous Pa- 
mela ! Do you care for me so much — enough 
to make such a sacrifice? Oh, Pam ! I am only 
a girl as you say ; but I think that, because I 
am a girl, perhaps I understand a little. Do 
you think that I could let you make such a 
sacrifice? Do you think I could let. you give 
them to me — the things that were to have be- 
longed to poor, dead Arthur’s wife? Oh, my 
generous darling ! Poor dead Arthur ! and the 
poor young wife who died with him! ” 

For some time Pamela said nothing, but 
Theo felt the slender, worn form that her arms 
clasped so warmly, tremble within them, and 
the bosom on which she had laid her loving, 
impassioned face throb strangely. But she 
spoke at length. 

“ I will not say it is not a sacrifice,” she said. 
“ I should not speak truly if I did. I have 


“ Theo.” 


3 61 

never told you of these things before, and why 
I kept them ; because such a life as ours does 
not make people understand one another very 
clearly ; but to-night, I remembered that I was 
a girl too, once, though the time seems so far 
away ; and it occurred to me that it was in my 
power to help you to a happier womanhood 
than mine has been. I shall not let you refuse 
the things. I offer them to you, and expect you 
to accept them, as they are offered — freely.” 
Neither protest nor reasoning was of any 
avail. The elder sister meant what she said, 
with just the settled precision that demon- 
strated itself upon even the most trivial occa- 
sions ; and Theo was fain to submit now, as 
she would have done in any smaller matter. 

“ When the things are of no further use, you 
may return them to me,” Pamela said. “ A 
little managing will make everything as good as 
new for you now. The fashion only needs to be 
changed, and we have ample material. There 
is a gray satin on the bed there, that will make 
a very pretty dinner-dress. Look at it, Theo.” 
Theo rose from her knees with the tears 
scarcely dry in her eyes. She had never seen 
such dresses in Downport before. These things 


3 62 


“ Theo." 


of Pamela’s had only come from London the 
day of Arthur’s death, and had never been 
opened for family inspection. Some motherly 
instinct, even in Mrs. North’s managing econ- 
omy, had held them sacred, and so they had 
rested. And now, in her girl’s admiration of 

• 

the thick, trailing folds of the soft gray satin, 
Theodora very naturally half forgot her tears. 

“ Pamela!” she said, timidly, a Do you 
think I could make it with a train ? I never 
did wear a train, you know, and ” 

There was such an appeal in her mellow- 
lighted eyes, that Pamela perceptibly softened. 

“ You shall have half a dozen trains if you 
want them,” she said ; and then, half-falter- 
ingly, added, “ Theo, there is something else. 
Come here.” 

There was a little, carven ebony box upon 
the dressing-table, and she went to it and 
opened it. Upon the white velvet lining lay 
a pretty set of jewels — sapphires ; their clear 
pendants sparkling like drops of deep sea- 
water. 

“ They were one of Mr. Brunwalde’s bridal 
gifts to me,” she said, scarcely heeding Theo’s 
low cry of admiration. “ 1 should have worn 


“ The o." 


363 


them upon my wedding-day. You are not so 
careless as most girls, Theodora, and so I will 
trust them to you. Hold up your arm, and let 
me clasp one of the bracelets on it. You have 
a pretty arm, Theo.” 

It was a pretty arm in truth, and the flash- 
ing pendants set it off to great advantage. 
Theo, herself, scarcely dared to believe her 
senses. Her wildest dreams had never pictured 
anything so beautiful as these pretty modest 
sapphires. Was it possible that she — she was 
to wear them ! The whole set of ear-rings, 
necklace, bracelets, rings, and everything, with 
all their crystallized drops and clusters ! It 
was a sudden opening of the gates of fairy- 
land ! To go to London would have been hap- 
piness enough ; but to go so like an enchanted 
princess, in all her enchanted finery, was more 
than she could realize. A color as brilliant as 
the scarlet in Lady Throckmorton’s frayed 
palm-leaf shawl, flew to her cheeks, she fairly 
clapped her hands in unconscious ecstasy. 

“ Oh, Pam ! ” she cried, with pathetic grati- 
tude. “ How good you are — how good — how 
good ! I can’t believe it ; I really can’t. And 
I will take such care of them — such care of 


3 6 4 


“ Theo." 


every thing. You shall see the dresses are not 
even crushed, I will be so careful.” And then 
she ended with another little shower of impul- 
sive caresses. 

But it was late by this time, and with her 
usual forethought — a forethought which no en- 
thusiasm could make her forget — Pamela sent 
her back to bed. She would be too tired to 
sew to-morrow, she said, prudently, and there 
was plenty of hard work to be done ; so, with 
a timid farewell kiss, Theo went to her room, 
and, in opening her door, awakened Joanna 
and Elin, who sat up in bed, dimly conscious 
of a white figure, wrapped in their august rela- 
tive’s shawl, and bearing a candle to light up 
scarlet cheeks, and inconsistent eyes, and tan- 
gled black hair. 

“ I am going to London,” the voice pertain- 
ing to this startling figure broke out. “ J oanna 
and Elin, do you hear? I am going to Lon- 
don, to Lady Throckmorton’s.” 

Joanna rubbed her eyes sleepily. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” she said, not too amiably, by any 
means. “ Of course you are. I knew you 
would. You are everlastingly going some- 
where, Theo, and Elin and I stay at home, as 


“ Theo.” 


365 


usual. Lady Throckmorton will never invite 
us, I know. Where are your things going to 
come from?” snappishly. 

“Pamela!” was Theo’s deprecating reply. 
“ They are the things that belonged to her 
wedding outfit. She never wore them after 
Mr. Brunwalde died, you know, Joanna, and 
she is going to lend them to me.” 

“ Let us go to sleep, Elin,” Joanna grumbled, 
drowsily. “We know all about it now. It’s 
just like Pam, with her partiality. She never 
offered to lend them to us, and we have wanted 
them, times and times, worse than ever Theo 
does now.” 

And then Theo went to bed also ; but 
did not sleep, of course ; only lay with eyes 
wide open to the darkness, as any other girl 
would have done, thinking excitedly of Pa- 
mela’s generous gifts, and of Lady Throckmor- 
ton, and, perhaps, more than once the strange 
chance which had brought to light again the 
wedding-day, that was never more than the 
sad ghost of a wedding, and the bridal gifts 
that had come to the bride from a dead hand. 


366 


“ Tkeo." 


CHAPTER II. 

MR. DENIS OGLETHORPE. 

A GREAT deal of hard work was done during 
the following week. The remodeling of the 
outfit was no light labor ; but Pamela was 
steady to her trust, in her usual practical style. 
She trimmed, and fitted, and cut, until the 
always - roughened surface of her thin fore- 
finger was rougher than ever. She kept Theo 
at work at the smaller tasks she chose to 
trust to her, and watched her sharply, with no 
shadow of the softened mood she had given 
the candle-lighted bedroom a glimpse of. She 
was as severe upon any dereliction from duty 
as ever, and the hardness of her general de- 
meanor was not a whit relaxed. Indeed, some- 
times Theo found herself glancing up furtively 
from her tasks, to look at the thin, sharp face, 
and wondering if she had not dreamed that 
her arms had clasped a throbbing, shaken 
form, when they faced together the ghost of 
long dead love. 

But the preparations were completed at last, 


‘'The or 


367 


and the trunks packed ; and Lady Throckmor- 
ton had written to say that her carriage would 
meet her young relative on her arrival. So 
the time came when Theo, in giving her fare- 
well kisses, clung a little closely about Pa- 
mela’s neck, and when the cab-door had been 
shut, saw her dimly through the smoky glass 
and the mistiness in her eyes ; saw her shabby 
dress, and faded face, and half longed to go 
back ; remembered sadly how many years had 
passed since she had left the dingy sea-port 
town to go to London, and meet her fate, and 
lose it, and grow old before her time in mourn- 
ing it ; saw her, last of all, and so was whirled 
up the street, and out of sight. And, in like 
manner she was whirled through the thronged 
streets of London, when she reached that city 
at night, only that Lady Throckmorton’s vel- 
vet-lined carriage was less disposed to rattle 
and jerk over the stones, and more disposed 
to an aristocratic, easily-swung roll than the 
musty vehicle of the Downport cabman. 

There was a queer, excited thrill in her 
pulses as she leaned back, watching the gas- 
lights gleaming through the fog, and the peo- 
ple passing to and fro beneath the gaslights. 


3 68 


“ Theor 


She was so near her journey’s end that she 
began to feel nervous. What would Lady 
Throckmorton look like? How would she re- 
ceive her? How would she be dressed? A 
hundred such simple, girlish wonders crowded 
into her mind. She would almost have been 
glad to go back — not quite, but almost. She 
had a lingering, inconsistent recollection of 
the contents of her trunks, and the sapphires, 
which was, nevertheless, quite natural to a girl 
so young, and so unused to even the most triv- 
ial luxuries. She had never possessed a rich 
or complete costume in her life ; and there 
was a wondrous novelty in the anticipation of 
wearing dresses that were not remodeled from 
Pamela’s or her mother’s cast-off garments. 

When the carriage drew up before the door 
of the solid stone house, in the solid-looking, 
silent square, she required all her courage. 
There was a glare of gaslight around the iron 
gateway, and a 'glare of gaslight from the open- 
ing door, and then, after a little confusion of 
entrance, she found herself passing up a stair- 
case, under the guidance of a servant, and so 
was ushered into a large, handsome room, and 
formally announced. 


“ The or 


369 


An elderly lady was sitting before the fire 
reading, and, on hearing Theo’s name, she 
rose, and came forward to meet her. Of 
course, it was Lady Throckmorton, and, having 
been a beauty in her long-past day, even at 
sixty-five Lady Throckmorton was quite an 
imposing old person. Even in her moment- 
ary embarrassment, Theo could not help no- 
ticing her bright, almond-shaped brown eyes, 
and the soft, close little curls of fine snow-white 
hair, that clustered about her face, under her 
rich, black-lace cap. 

“ Theodora North, is it?” she said, offering 
her a wrinkled, yet strong white hand. “ I am 
glad to see you, Theodora. I was afraid you 
would be too late for Sir Dugald’s dinner, and 
here you are, just in time. I hope you are well, 
and not tired.” 

Theo replied meekly. She was quite well, 
and not at all tired, which seemed to satisfy 
her ladyship, for she nodded her handsome old 
head approvingly. 

“Very well, then, my dear,” she said. “I 
will ring for Splaighton to take you up stairs, 
and attend to you. Of course you will want to 
change your dress for dinner, and you have not 
3 


370 


“ The or 


much time. .Sir Dugald never waits for any- 
body, and nothing annoys him more than to 
have dinner detained.” 

Accordingly, greatly in awe of Sir Dugald, 
whoever he might be, Theodora was led 
out of the room again, and up another broad 
staircase, into an apartment as spacious and 
luxurious as the one below. There her toilet 
was performed, and there the gray satin was 
donned in some trepidation, as the most suita- 
ble dress for the occasion. 

She stepped before the full-length mirror to 
look at herself before going down, and as she 
did so, she was conscious that her waiting-wo- 
man was looking at her too in sedate approval. 
The gray satin was very becoming. Its elabo- 
rate richness and length of train changed the 
undeveloped girl, to whom she had given a 
farewell glance in the small mirror at Down- 
port, to the stateliest of tall young creatures. 
Her bare arms and neck were as soft and firm 
as a baby’s ; her face was all aglow with color. 
But for the presence of the maid, she would 
have uttered a little cry of pleasure, she was 
so new to herself. 

It was like a dream, the going down stairs in 


“The or 


37 T 

the light and brightness, and listening to the 
soft sweep of the satin-train ; but it was singu- 
larly undream-like to be startled, as she was, by 
the rushing of a huge Spanish mastiff, which 
bounded down the steps behind her, and bound- 
ing upon her dress, nearly knocked her down. 
The animal came like a rush of wind, and sim- 
ultaneously a door opened and shut with a 
bang; and the man who came out to follow the 
dog, called to him in a voice so rough that it 
might have been a rush of wind also. 

“ Sabre!” he shouted. “ Come back, you 
scoundrel ! ” and then his heavy feet sounded 
upon the carpet. “ The deuce ! ” he said, in a 
low mutter, which sounded as though he was 
speaking half to her, half to himself. 

“ My lady’s protege , is it ? The other Pa- 
mela ! Rather an improvement on Pamela, 
too. Not so thin.” 

Theo blushed brilliantly — a full-blown rose 
of a blush, and hesitated, uncertain what eti- 
quette demanded of her under the circumstan- 
ces. She did not know very much about 
etiquette, but she had an idea that this was 
Sir Dugald, whoever Sir Dugald might be. But 
Sir Dugald set her mind at rest on nearing her. 


372 


“ Tkcor 


u Good-evening, Theodora,” he said, uncere- 
moniously. “ Of course it is Theodora.” 

Theo bowed and blushed more brilliantly 
still. 

“ All the better,” said this very singular in- 
dividual. “ Then I haven’t made a mistake,” 
and, reaching as he spoke, the parlor-door, at 
the foot of the stairs, and finding that the mas- 
tiff was stretched upon the mat, he favored him 
with an unceremonious, but not unfriendly kick, 
and then opened the door, the dog preced- 
ing them into the room with slow stateliness. 

“ You are a quick dresser, I am glad to see, 
Theodora,” said Lady Throckmorton, who 
awaited them. “ Of course, there is no need 
of introducing you two to each other. Sir 
Dugald does not usually wait for ceremonies.” 
Sir Dugald looked down at the lovely face 
at his side with a ponderous stare. He might 
have been admiring it, or he might not ; at 
any rate, he was favoring it with a pretty close 
inspection. 

“ I believe Sir D ugald has not introduced 
himself to me,” said Theo, in some confusion. 
“ He knew that I was Theodora North ; but 


I—” 


“ The or 


373 


“ Oh ! ” interposed her ladyship, as collect- 
edly as if she had scarcely expected anything 
else, “ I see. Theodora — your uncle.” 

By way of returning Theo’s modest little 
recognition of the presentation, Sir Dugald 
nodded slightly, and after giving her another 
stare, turned to his mastiff, and laid a large, 
muscular hand upon his head. He was not 
a very prepossessing individual, Sir Dugald 
Throckmorton. 

Lady Throckmorton seemed almost entirely 
oblivious of her husband’s presence ; she sol- 
aced herself by ignoring him. 

When they rose from the table together, 
the authoritative old lady motioned Theo to 
a seat upon one of the gay footstools near 
her. 

“ Come and sit down by me,” she said. “ I 
want to talk to you, Theodora.” 

Theo obeyed with some slight trepidation. 
The brown eyes were so keen as they ran over 
her. But she seemed to be satisfied with her 
scrutiny. 

“ You are a very pretty girl, Theodora,” she 
said. “ How old are you ? ” 

“ I am sixteen,” answered Theo. 


374 


“ The or 


“ Only sixteen/’ commented my lady. “ That 
means only a baby in Downport, I suppose. 
Pamela was twenty when she came to London, 
and I remember Well, never mind. Sup- 

pose you tell me something about your life at 
home. What have you been doing all these 
sixteen years ? ” 

“ I had always plenty to do,” Theo an- 
swered. “ I helped Pamela with the house- 
work and the clothes-men ding. We did not 
keep any servant, so we were obliged to do 
everything for ourselves.” 

“ You were ? ” said the old lady, with a side 
glance at the girl’s slight, dusky hands. “ How 
did you amuse yourself when your work was 
done r 

“We had not much time for amusements,” 
Theo replied, demurely, in spite of her discom- 
fort under the catechism ; “ but, sometimes, on 
idle days, \ read or walked on the beach with 
the children, or did Berlin-wool work.” 

“ What did you read ? ” proceeded the au- 
gust catechist. She liked to hear the girl talk. 

“ Love stories and poetry, and sometimes 
history ; but not often history — love stories 
and poetry oftenest.” 


“ Theor 


375 


The clever old face was studying her with a 
novel sort of interest. Upon the whole, my 
lady was not sorry she had sent for Theodora 
North. 

‘‘And, of course, being a Downport baby, 
you have never had a lover. Pamela never had 
a lover before she came to me.” 

A lover. How Theodora startled and blushed 
now, to be sure. 

“No, madame,” she answered, and in a per- 
fect wonder of confusion, dropped her eyes, 
and was silent. 

But the very next instant she raised them 
again at the sound of the door opening. Some- 
body was coming in, and it was evidently some- 
body who felt himself at home, and at liberty 
to come in as he pleased, and when the fancy 
took him, for he came unannounced entirely. 

Theo found herself guilty of the impropriety 
of gazing at him wonderingly as he came for- 
ward, but Lady Throckmorton did not seem at 
all surprised. 

“ I have been expecting you, Denis,” she 
said. “Good-evening! Here is Theodora 
North. You know I told you about her.” 

Theo rose from her footstool at once, and 


3 7 6 


“ Theo ” 


stood up tall and straight — a young sultana, 
the youngest and most innocent-looking of 
sultanas, in unimperial graysatin. The gentle- 
man was looking at her with a pair of the 
handsomest eyes she had ever seen in her 
life. 

Then he made a low, ceremonious bow, and 
having done this much, he sat down, as if he 
was very much at home indeed. 

“ I thought I would run in on my way to 
Broom Street,” he said. “ I am obliged to go 
to Miss Gower’s, though I am tired out to- 
night.” 

“ Obliged ! ”■ echoed her ladyship. 

“Well — yes,” the gentleman answered, with 
cool negligence. “ Obliged in one sense. I 
have not seen Priscilla for a week.” 

The handsome, strongly-marked old eye- 
brows went up. 

“For a week,” remarked their owner, quite 
sharply. “A long time to be absent.” 

It was rather unpleasant, Theodora thought, 
that they should both seem so thoroughly at 
liberty to say what they pleased before her, as 
if she was a child. Their first words had suf- 
ficed to show her that “ Miss Gower’s” — where- 


“ The or 


377 


ever Miss Gower’s might be, or whatever order 
of place it was — was a very objectionable place 
in Lady Throckmorton’s eyes. 

“ Well — yes,” he said again. “ It is rather 
a long time, to tell the truth.” 

He seemed determined that the matter 
should rest here, for he changed the subject 
at once, having made this reply, thereby prov- 
ing to Theo that he was used to having his own 
way, even with Lady Throckmorton. He was 
hard-worked, it seemed, from what he said, 
and had a great deal of writing to do. He 
was inclined to be satirical, too, in a careless 
fashion, and knew quite a number of literary 
people, and said a great many sharp things 
about them, as if he was used to them, and 
stood in no awe whatever of them and their 
leonine greatness. But he did not talk to her, 
though he looked at her now and then ; and 
whenever he looked at her, his glance was a 
half-admiring one, even while it was evident 
that he was not thinking much about her. 
He did not remain with them very long, 
scarcely an hour, and yet she was almost sorry 
to see him go. It was so pleasant to sit silent 
and listen to these two worldly ones, as they 


378 


“ Theo." 


talked about their world. But he had prom- 
ised Priscilla that he would bring her a Greek 
grammar she required ; and a broken promise 
was a sin unpardonable in Priscilla’s eyes. 

When he was gone, and they had heard the 
hall-door close upon him, the stillness was 
broken in upon by my lady herself. 

“Well, my dear,” she said, to Theodora, 
“What is your opinion of Mr. Denis Ogle- 
thorpe ? ” 

“ He is very handsome,” said Theo, in some 
slight embarrassment. “ And I think I like 
him very much. Who is Priscilla, aunt ? ” 

She knew that she had said something 
amusing by Lady Throckmorton’s laughing 
quietly. 

“You are very like Pamela, Theodora,” she 
said. “ It sounds very like Pamela — what Pa- 
mela used to be — to be interested in Pris- 
cilla.” 

“ I hope it wasn’t rude?” fluttered the poor 
little rose-colored sultana. 

“ Not at all,” answered Lady Throckmor- 
ton. “ Only innocent. But I can tell you all 
about Priscilla in a dozen words. Priscilla is 
a modern Sappho. Priscilla is an elderly 


“ Theo." 379 

young lady, who never was a girl — Priscilla is 
my poor Denis Oglethorpe’s fiancee .” 

“ Oh ! ” said Theodora. 

Her august relative drew her rich silk skirts 
a little further away from the heat of the fire, 
and frowned slightly ; but not at Theodora — 
at Priscilla, in her character of fiancee. 

“Yes,” she went on. “And I think you 
would agree with me in saying poor Denis 
Oglethorpe, if you could see Priscilla.” 

“ Is she ugly? ” asked Theo, concisely. 

“No,” sharply. “I wish she was; but at 
twenty-two she is elderly, as I said just now 
— and die never was anything else. She was 
elderly when they were engaged, five years 
ago.” 

“ But why — why didn’t they get married five 
years ago, if they were engaged ? ” 

“ Because they were too poor,” Lady Throck- 
morton explained ; “ because Denis was only 
a poor young journalist, scribbling night and 
day, and scarcely earning his bread and but- 
ter.” 

“ Is he poor now? ” ventured Theo again. 

“ No,” was the answer. “ I wish he was, if 
it would save him from the Gowers. As it is, 


380 


“ The or 


I suppose, if nothing happens to prevent it; 
he will marry Priscilla before the year is out. 
Not that it is any business of mine, but that 
I am rather fond of him — very fond of him, 
I might say, and I was once engaged to his 
father.’' 

Theo barely restrained an ejaculation. Here 
was another romance — and she was so fond of 
romances. Pamela's love-story had been a 
great source of delight to her ; but if Mr. 
Oglethorpe’s father had been anything like that 
gentleman himself, what a delightful affair 
Lady Throckmorton’s love-story must have 
been. The comfortable figure in the arm- 
chair at her side caught a glow of the faint 
halo that surrounded poor Pam ; but in this 
case the glow had a more roseate tinge, and 
was altogether free from the funereal gray that 
in Pamela always gave Theo a sense of sym- 
pathizing discomfort. 

The next day she wrote to Pamela. 

“ I have not had time yet to decide how I like 
Lady Throckmorton,” she said. “ She is very 
kind to me, and asks a good many questions. I 
think I am a little afraid of her; but, perhaps, 
that is because I do not know her verv well. 

4 


“ The or 


381 


One thing I am sure of, she doesn’t like either 
Sir Dugald and his dog very much. We had a 
caller last night — a gentleman. A Mr. Denis 
Oglethorpe, who is a very great favorite of 
Lady Throckmorton. He is very handsome, 
indeed. I never saw any one at all like him 
before — any one half so handsome and self- 
possessed. I liked him very much because he 
talked so well, and was so witty. I had on the 
gray satin when he came, and the train hung 
beautifully. I am glad we made it with a train, 
Pamela. I think I shall wear the purple cloth 
to-night, as Lady Throckmorton said that per- 
haps he might drop in again, and he knows so 
many grand people, that I should like to look 
nice. There seems to be a queer sort of friend- 
ship between aunt and himself, though some- 
how I fancied he did not care much about 
what she said to him. He is engaged to be 
married to a very accomplished young lady, 
and has been for several years ; but they were 
both too poor to be married until now. The 
young lady’s name is Priscilla Gower ; and 
Lady Throckmorton does not like her, which 
seems very strange to me. She is as poor as 
we are, 1 should imagine, for she gives French 


382 


“ The or 


and Latin lessons, and lives in a shabby house. 
But I don't think that is the reason Lady 
Throckmorton does not like her. I believe it 
is because she thinks she is not suited to Mr. 
Oglethorpe. I hope she is mistaken, for Mr. 
Oglethorpe is very nice indeed, and very clever. 
He is a journalist, and has written a book of 
beautiful poetry. I found the volume this 
morning, and have been reading it all day. I 
think it is lovely ; but Lady Throckmorton 
says he wrote it when he was very young, and 
makes fun of it now. I don’t think he ought 
to, I am sure. I shall buy a copy before I re- 
turn, and bring it home to show you. I will 
write to mamma in a day or so. With kisses 
and love, and a hundred thanks again for the 
dresses, I remain, my dearest Pamela, your 
loving and grateful Theo.” 


“ Theo 


3 S 3 


CHAPTER III. 

PRISCILLA AND MARGUERITE. 

But Denis Oglethorpe did not appear again 
for several days. Perhaps business detained 
him ; perhaps he went oftener to see Priscilla. 
At any rate, he did not call again until the end 
of the week. 

Lady Throckmorton was in her private room 
when he came, and as he made his entrance 
with as little ceremony as usual, he ran in upon 
Theodora. Now, to tell the truth, he had, 
until this moment, forgotten all about that 
young person’s very existence. He saw so • 
many pretty girls in a day’s round, and he was 
so often too busy to notice half of them — 
though he was an admirer of pretty girls — that 
it was nothing new to see one and forget her, 
until chance threw them together again. Of 
course, he had noticed Theodora North that 
first night. How could a man help noticing 
her? And the something beautifully over- 
awed and bashfully curious in her lovely, un- 
common eyes, had amused him. And yet, 


3^4 


“ Theor 


until this moment, he had forgotten her, with 
the assistance of proofs, and printers, and Pris- 
cilla. 

But when, after running lightly up the stair- 
case, he opened the drawing-room door, and 
saw a tall, lovely figure in a closely-fitting dress 
of purple cloth, bending over Sabre, and strok- 
ing his huge, tawny head with a supple little 
tender hand, he remembered. 

“ Ah, yes!” he exclaimed, in an admiring 
aside. “To be sure; I had forgotten Theo- 
dora.” 

But Theodora had not forgotten him. The 
moment she saw him, she stood up blushing, 
and with a light in her eyes. It was odd how 
un-English she looked, and yet how thoroughly 
English she was in that delicious, uncomforta- 
ble trick of blushing vividly upon all occasions. 
She was quite unconscious of the fact that the 
purple cloth was so becoming, and that its 
sweep of straight, heavy folds made her as 
stately as some Rajah’s dark-eyed daughter. 
She did not feel stately at all ; she only felt 
somewhat confused, and rather glad that Mr. 
Denis Oglethorpe had surprised her by com- 
ing again. How Mr. Denis Oglethorpe would 


“ Theo .” 385 

have smiled if he had known what an innocent 
commotion his simple presence created ! 

“ Lady Throckmorton is up-stairs reading/’ 
she explained. “ I will go and tell her you are 
here.” There were no bells in the house at 
Downport, and no servants to answer if any 
one had rang one, and, very naturally, Theo 
forgot she was not at Downport. 

“ Excuse me. No,” said Mr. Denis Ogle- 
thorpe. “ I would not disturb her on any ac- 
count ; and, besides, I know she will be down 
directly. She never reads late in the evening. 
This is a very handsome dog, Miss North.” 

“Very handsome, indeed,” was Theo’s re- 
ply. “ Come here, Sabre.” 

Sabre stalked majestically to her side, and 
laid his head upon her knee. Theo stroked 
him softly, raising her eyes quite seriously to 
Mr. Oglethorpe’s face. 

“ He reminds me of Sir Dugald himself,” she 
said. 

Mr. Denis Oglethorpe smiled faintly. He was 
not very fond of Sir Dugald, and the perfect 
gravity and naivete with which this unsophist- 
icated young person had made her comment 
had amounted to a very excellent joke. 

4 


386 


“ Theor 


“ Does he ? ” he returned, as quietly as pos- 
sible, and then his glance meeting Theo’s, she 
broke into a little burst of horror-stricken self- 
reproach. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she exclaimed. “ I oughtn’t to 
have said that, ought I ? I forgot how rude 
it would sound ; but indeed, I only meant that 
Sabre was so slow and heavy, and — and so in- 
different to people, somehow. I don’t think 
he cares about being liked at all.” 

She was so abashed at her blunder, that she 
looked absolutely imploring, and Mr. Denis 
Oglethorpe smiled again. He felt inclined to 
make friends with Theodora. 

“ There is a little girl staying at Lady 
Throckmorton’s,” he had said to Priscilla. “A 
relative of hers. A pretty creature, too, Pris- 
cilla, for a bread-and-butter miss.” 

But just at that moment, he thought better 
of the matter. What tender, speechful eyes 
she had. He was aroused to a recognition of 
their beauty all at once. What contour there 
was in the turn of arm and shoulder under the 
close-fitting purple cloth. He was artistically 
thankful that there was no other trimming of 
the straight bodice than the line of buttons 


“ Theo .” 387 

that descended from the full white ruff of 
swansdown at her throat, to her delicate, trim 
waist. Her unconscious stateliness of girlish 
form, and the conscious shyness of her man- 
ner, were the loveliest inconsistency in the 
world. 

“ Oh, I shall not tell Sir Dugald,” he said to 
her, good-humoredly. “ Besides, I think the 
comparison an excellent one. I don't know 
anything in London so like Sir Dugald as Sir 
D ugald’s dog.” 

Theodora stroked Sabre apologetically, but 
could scarcely find courage to speak. She had 
stood somewhat in awe of Mr. Denis Ogle- 
thorpe, even at first, and her discomfort was 
rapidly increasing. He must think her dread- 
fully stupid, though he was good-humored 
enough to make light of her silly speech. Cer- 
tainly, Priscilla never made such a silly speech 
in her life ; but then how could one teach 
French and Latin, and be anything but pon- 
derously discreet. 

Mr. Denis Oglethorpe was not thinking ot 
Priscilla’s wisdom, however ; he was thinking 
of Theodora North ; he was thinking that he 
must have been very blind not to have seen 


3*S 


“ Theo." 


before that his friend’s niece was a beauty of 
the first water, young as she was. But he had 
been tired and fagged out, he remembered, on 
the first occasion of their meeting — too tired 
to think of anything but his appointment at 
Broome Street, and Priscilla’s Greek grammar. 
And, now, in recognizing what he had before 
passed by, he was quite glad to find the girl 
so young and inexperienced — so modest, in a 
sweet way. It was easy, as well as proper 
enough, to talk to her unceremoniously with- 
out the trouble of being diffuse and compli- 
mentary. So he made himself agreeable, 
and Theodora listened until she quite forgot 
Sir Dugald, and only remembered Sabre, be- 
cause his big, heavy head was on her knee, 
and she was stroking it. 

“ And you were never in London before?” 
he said, at length. 

“ No, sir,” Theo answered. “ This is the 
first time. I was never even out of Downport 

JL 

before.” 

“ Then we must take you to see the lions,” 
he said, “ if Lady Throckmorton will let us, 
Miss Theodora. I wonder if she would let 
us? If she would, I have a lady friend who 


“ TAeo” 


389 


knows them all, from the grisliest downward, 
and I know she would like to help me to exhibit 
them to you. How should you like that ? ” 

“ Better than anything in the world,” glow- 
ing with delighted surprise. “If it wouldn’t 
be too much trouble,” she said, quite apologet- 
ically. 

Mr. Denis Oglethorpe smiled. 

“ It would be simply delightful,” he said. 
“ I should like it better than anything in the 
world, too. We will appeal to Lady Throck- 
morton.” 

“When Priscilla was in London ” Theo- 

dora was beginning a minute later, when the 
handsome face changed suddenly as her com- 
panion turned upon her in evident surprise. 
“Priscilla?” he repeated, after her. 

“How stupid I am!” she ejaculated, dis- 
tressedly. “ I meant to say Pamela. My 

eldest sister’s name is Pamela, and — and ” 

“And you said Priscilla by mistake,” inter- 
posed Oglethorpe, with a sudden accession of 
gravity. “ Priscilla is a little like Pamela.” 

It needed nothing more than this simple slip 
of Theodora North’s tongue' to assure him that 
Lady Throckmorton had been telling her the 


“ Theor 


39 ° 

story of his engagement to Miss Gower, and, 
as might be anticipated, he was not as devoutly 
grateful to her ladyship as he might have been. 
He was careless to a fault in some things, and 
punctilious to a fault in others ; and he was 
very punctilious about Priscilla Gower. He 
was not an ardent lover, but he was a conscien- 
tiously honorable one, and, apart from his re- 
spect for his betrothed, he was very impatient 
of interference with his affairs ; and my lady 
was not chary of interfering when the fancy 
seized her. It roused his pride to think how 
liberally he must have been discussed, and, 
consequently, when Lady Throckmorton joined 
them, he was not in the most amiable of moods. 
But he managed to end his conversation with 
Theo unconstrainedly enough. He even gained 
her ladyship’s consent to their plan. It was 
curiously plain how they both appeared to 
agree in thinking her a child, and treating her 
as one. Not that Theo cared about that. She 
had been so used to Pamela, that she would 
have felt half afraid of being treated with any 
greater ceremony; but still she could clearly 
understand that Mr. Oglethorpe did not speak 
to her as he would have spoken to Miss Gower. 


“The or 


39 1 


But free from any touch of light gallantry as 
his manner toward the girl was, Denis Ogle- 
thorpe did not forget her this night. On the 
contrary, he remembered her very distinctly, 
and had in his mind a very exact mental rep- 
resentation of her purple robe, soft white ruff, 
and all, as he buttoned up his paletot over his 
chest in walking homeward. But he thought 
of her carelessly and honestly enough, as a 
beautiful young creature years behind him in 
experience, and utterly beyond him in all pos- 
sibility of any sentimental fancy. 

The friendship existing between Lady 
Throckmorton and this young man was an in- 
consistent sentiment enough, and yet was a 
friendship, and a mature one. The two had 
encountered each other some years ago, when 
Denis had been by no means in his palmiest 
days. In fact, my lady had picked him up 
when he stood in sore need of friends, and 
Oglethorpe never forgot a favor. He never 
forgot to be grateful to Lady Throckmorton ; 
and so, despite the wide difference between 
their respective ages and positions, their mu- 
tual liking had ripened into a familiarity of 
relationship which made them more like elder 


39 2 


“Theo.” 


sister and younger brother than anything else. 
Oglethorpe, junior, was pretty much what 
Oglethorpe, senior, had been, and, notwith- 
standing her practical views, Lady Throckmor- 
ton liked him none the worse for it. She 
petted and patronized him, questioned and 
advised him, and if he did not please her, rated 
him roundly without the least compunction. 
In fact, she was a woman of caprices even at 
sixty-five, and Denis Oglethorpe was one of her 
caprices. 

And, in like manner, Theodora North be- 
came another of them. Finding her tractable, 
she became quite fond of her, in her own way, 
and was at least generous to lavishness in her 
treatment of her. 

“ You are very handsome, indeed, Theodo- 
ra,” she said to her a few days after her arrival. 
“ Of course you know that — ten times hand- 
somer than ever poor Pamela could have been. 
Your fi gure is perfect, and you have eyes like 
a Syrian, instead of a commonplace English 
woman. I am going to give you a rose pink 
satin dress. Rose-pink is just your shade, and 
some day when we go out together, I will lend 
you some of my diamonds.” 


“ Thco." 


393 


After this whimsical manner she lavished 
presents upon her whenever she had a new 
fancy. In truth, her generosity was constitu- 
tional, and she had been generous enough 
toward Pamela, but she had never been so ex- 
travagant as she was with Theodora. Theo- 
dora was an actual beauty, of an uncommon 
type, in the face of her ignorance of manners 
and customs. Pamela had never, at her best, 
been more than a delicately pretty girl. 

In the meantime, Denis Oglethorpe made 
frequent calls as usual, and always meeting 
Theodora, found her very pleasant to talk to 
and look at. He found out her enthusiastic 
admiration for the poetic effusions of his youth, 
and in consideration thereof, good-humoredly 
presented her with a copy of the volume, with 
some very witty verses written on the fly-leaf 
in a flourishing hand. It was worth while to 
amuse Theodora, she was so pretty and unas- 
suming in her delight at his carelessly-amiable 
efforts for her entertainment. She was only a 
mere child after all, at sixteen, with Downport 
in the background ; so he felt quite honestly at 
ease in being attentive to her girlish require- 
ments. Better that he should amuse her than 


394 


“The or 


that she should be left to the mercy of men 
who would perhaps have the execrable taste to 
spoil her pretty childish ways with flattery. 

“ Don’t let all these fine people and fine 
speeches turn your head, Theodora,” he would 
say, in a tone that might either have been jest 
or earnest. “ They spoiled me in my infancy, 
and my unfortunate experience causes me to 
warn you.” 

But whether he jested or not, Theo was al- 
ways inclined to listen to him with some de- 
gree of serious belief. She took his advice 
when it was proffered, and regarded his wis- 
dom as the wisdom of an oracle. Who should 
know better than he what was right? His in- 
difference to the rule of opinion could only 
be the result of conscious perfection, and his 
careless satires were to her the most brilliant 
of witticisms. He paid her his first compli- 
ment the night the rose -colored satin dress 
came home. 

They were going to see Faust together with 
Lady Throckmorton, and she had finished 
dressing early, and came down to the drawing- 
room, and there Denis found her when he came 
up-stairs — the thick, lustrous folds of satin bil- 


“ Theo 


395 


lowing upon the carpet around her feet, some- 
thing white, and soft, and heavy wrapped about 
her. 

He was conscious of a faint shock of delight 
on first beholding her. He had just left Pris- 
cilla, pale and heavy-eyed, in dun-colored me- 
rino, poring over a Greek dictionary, and the 
sudden entering the bright room, and finding 
himself facing Theodora North in rose-colored 
satin, was a little like electricity. 

“ Oh ! it’s Theodora, is it ? ” he said, slowly, 
when he recovered himself. “ Thank you, The- 
odora.” 

“ What for?” asked Theo, blushing. 

“ For the rose-colored satin,” he returned, 
complacently. “It is so very becoming. You 
look like a sultana, my dear Theodora.” 

Theo looked up at him for a second, and 
then looked down. Much as she admired Mr. 
Denis Oglethorpe, she never quite compre- 
hended him. He had such an eccentric fash- 
ion of being almost curt, sometimes. She had 
seen him actually give a faint start when he 
entered, and she had not understood that, and 
now he had paid her a compliment, but with 
so much of something puzzling hidden in his 


396 


“ Thco." 


quiet-sounding voice, that she did not under- 
stand that either — and he saw she did not. 

“ I have been making a fine speech to Theo- 
dora/’ he said to Lady Throckmorton, when 
she came in. “And she does not comprehend 
it in the least.” 

It was somewhat singular, Theo thought, 
that he should be so silent after this, for he 
was silent. He even seemed absent-minded, 
for some reason or other. He did not talk to 
her as much as usual, and she was quite sure 
he paid very little attention to Faust. 

But during the final act she found that he 
was not looking at the stage at all ; but was 
sitting in the shadow of the box-curtain watch- 
ing herself. She had been deeply interested 
in Marguerite a minute before, and, in her 
heart-touched pleasure, had leant upon the 
edge of the box, her whole face thrilled with 
excitement. But the steady gaze magnetized 
her, and drew her eyes round to the shadowy 
corner where Denis sat ; and she positively 
turned with just such a start as he himself had 
given when Theodora North, in rose-colored 
satin, burst upon him, in such vivid, glowing 
contrast to Priscilla Gower, in dun merino. 


“ Theor 


397 


“ Oh ! ” she said, and though the little excla- 
mation was scarcely more than an indrawn 
breath, Denis heard it, and came out of his 
corner to take a seat at her side, and lean over 
the box edge also. 

“ What is it, Theodora? ” he asked, in a low r , 
clear voice. “ Is it Marguerite ? ” 

She looked at him in a little fright at herself. 
She did not know why she had exclaimed — she 
scarcely knew how ; but when she met his un- 
embarrassed eyes, she began to think that pos- 
sibly it might be Marguerite. Indeed, a sec- 
ond later, she was quite sure it had been Mar- 
guerite. 

“ Yes — I thinkso,” she faltered. “ Poor Mar- 
guerite ! If she could only have saved him?” 

“ How ? ” he asked. 

“ I don’t — at least I scarcely know ; but I 
think the author ought to have made her save 
him, someway. If — if she could have suffered 
something, or sacrificed something ” 

“ Would she have done it if she could ? ” 
commented Denis, languidly. He had quite 
recovered himself by this time. 

“ I would have done it if I had been Mar- 


guerite, ” Theo half whispered. 


393 


“The or 


In his surprise he forgot his self-possession. 
He turned upon her suddenly, and, meeting 
her sweet eyes, felt the faint, pained shock 
once more, and, strangely enough, his first 
thought was a disconnected one of Priscilla 
Gower. 

“You?” he said, the next moment. “Yes, 
I believe you would, Theodora.” 

He was sure she would, after that swift 

glance of his, and . Well, what a happy 

man he would be for whom this tender young 
Marguerite would suffer or be sacrificed. The 
idea had really never occurred to him before 
that Theodora North was nearly a woman ; but 
it occurred to him now with all the greater 
force, because he had been so oblivious to the 
fact before. 

He sat by her side until the curtain fell ; but 
his silent mood seemed to have come upon him 
again. He was very much interested in Mar- 
guerite after this, Theo thought ; but it is very 
much to be doubted whether he could have 
given a clear account of what was passing be- 
fore his eyes upon the stage. He did not even 
go into the house with them when they re- 
turned ; but as he stood upon the door-step, 


“ Tlieor 


399 


touching his hat in a final adieu, he was keenly 
alive to a consciousness of Theodore North 
at the head of the staircase with billows of 
glistening rose-pink satin lying on the rich car- 
pet about her feet, as she half turned toward 
him to bid him good-night. 

Bright as the picture was, it left a sense of 
discomfort, he could not explain why. He dis- 
missed the carriage, and walked down the 
street, feeling fairly depressed in spirits. 

He had, perhaps, never given the girl a 
thought before, unless when chance had thrown 
them together, and even then his thoughts had 
been common admiring ones. She had pleased 
him, and he had tried to amuse her in a care- 
less, well-meant fashion, though he had never 
made fine speeches to her, as nine men out of 
ten would have done. He had been so used 
to Priscilla, that it never occurred to him that 
a girl so young as this one could be a woman. 
And, after all, his blindness had not been the 
result of any frivolous lack of thought. A 
sharp experience had made him as thoroughly 
a man of the world as a man may be ; but it 
had not made him callous or indifferent to the 
beauties of life. No one would ever have 


4oo 


“ Theor 


called him emotional, or prone to enthusiasms 
of a weak kind, and yet he was by no means 
hard of heart. He had quiet fancies of his 
own about people and things, and many of 
these reticent, rarely-expressed ideas were rev- 
erent, chivalrous ones of women. The oppos- 
ing force of a whole world could never have 
shaken his faith in Priscilla Gower, or touched 
his respect for her ; but though, perhaps, he 
had never understood it so, he had never felt 
very enthusiastically concerning her. Truly, 
Priscilla Gower and enthusiasm were not in ac- 
cordance with each other. Chance had thrown 
them together when both were very young, and 
propinquity did the rest. Propinquity is the 
strongest of agents in a love affair, and in 
Denis Oglethorpe’s love affair, propinquity had 
accomplished what nothing else would have 
been likely to have done. The desperate 
young scribbler of twenty years had been the 
lodger of the elder Miss Gower, and Priscilla, 
aged seventeen, had brought in his frugal din- 
ners to him, and receipted his modest bills on 
their weekly payment. 

Priscilla at seventeen, silent, practical, grave, 
and handsome, had, perhaps, softened uncon- 


“ Theo." 


401 


sciously at the sight of his often pale face — he 
worked so hard, and so far into the night ; 
when at length they became friends, Priscilla 
gravely, and without any hesitation, volun- 
teered to help him. She could copy well and 
clearly, and he could come into her aunt’s room 
— it would save fires. So she helped him 
calmly and decorously, bending her almost 
austerely-handsome young head over his papers 
for hours on the long winter nights. It is easy 
to guess how the matter terminated. If ever 
he won success he determined to give it to 
Priscilla — and so he told her. He had never 
wavered in his faith for a second since, though 
he had encountered many beautiful and wo- 
manly women. He had worked steadily for 
her sake, and shielded her from every care that 
it lay within his power to lighten. He was not 
old Miss Elizabeth Gower’s lodger now — he 
was her niece’s husband in prospective. He 
was to marry Priscilla Gower in eight months. 
This was why Theodora North, in glistening 
rose-pink satin, sent him home confronting a 
suddenly-raised spirit of pain. Twice, in one 
night, he had found himself feeling toward 
Theodora North as he had never felt toward 
5 


402 


“Thee.” 


Priscilla Gower in his life. Twice, in one night, 
he had turned his eyes upon this girl of six- 
teen, and suffered a sudden shock of amaze- 
ment, or something like it. He was startled 
and discomfited. She had no right to win 
such admiration from him — he had no right to 
give it. 

But as his walk in the night-air cooled him, 
it cooled his ardor of self-examination some- 
what. His discontent was modified by the 
time he reached his own door, and took his 
latch-key out of his pocket. The face that had 
looked down upon him beneath the light at 
the head of the staircase had faded into less 
striking color — it was only a girl’s face again. 
He was on better terms with himself, and his 
weakness seemed less formidable. 

“ I will keep my promise to-morrow,” he 
said, “ and Priscilla shall go with us. Poor 
Priscilla ! — poor girl ! Rose-pink satin would 
scarcely be in good taste in Broome Street.” 

The promise he had made was nothing more 
than a ratification of the old one. They were 
to see the lions together, and Priscilla was to 
guide them. 

And when the morrow came, he found it, 


“ The or 


403 


after all, safe enough, and an easy enough mat- 
ter, to tuck Theodora’s small, gloved hand un- 
der his arm, when they set out on their tour 
of investigation and discovery. The girl was 
pretty enough, too, in her soft, black merino 
— her “best” dress in Downport — but she was 
not dazzling. The little round, black-plumed 
hat was becoming also ; but in his now more 
prosaic mood he could stand that, too, pretty 
as it was, in an innocent, unconsciously-coquet- 
tish way. Theo was never coquettish herself in 
the slightest degree. She was not world-wise 
enough for that yet. But she was quite exhil- 
arating to-day ; so glad to be out, even in the 
London fog of November; so glad to be taken 
lion-hunting ; so delighted with the shops and 
their gay windows ; so ready to let her young 
tongue run on in a gay stream of clatter, alto- 
gether so bright, and pretty, and joyous, that 
her escort was fain to be delighted too. 

“ Guess where we are going to first ! ” said he. 
(He had not before openly spoken of Priscilla 
to her.) 

She glanced up into his face, brightly. She 
remembered what he had told her about his 
lady friend. 


404 


“ Theo r 


“ I don’t exactly know the name of the place,” 
she said ; “ but I think I know the name of the 
person we are going to see.” 

“ Do you ? ” was his reply. “ Then say it to 
me — let me hear it.” 

“ Miss Gower,” she answered, softly, in a 
pretty reverence for him. “ Miss Priscilla 
Gower.” 

He nodded, slightly, with a curious mixture 
of expressions in his face. 

“Yes,” he said. “Miss Gower, or rather 
Miss Priscilla Gower, as you say. Number 
twenty -three Broome Street; and Broome 
Street is not a fashionable locality, my dear 
Theodora.” 

“ Isn’t it ? ” queried Theo. “ Why not ? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ask Lady Throckmorton,” he said. “But 
do you know who Miss Priscilla Gower is, Theo- 
dora ? ” 

Her bright eyes crept up to his, half-timidly ; 
but she said nothing, so he continued : 

“ Miss Priscilla Gower is the young lady to 
whom I am to be married next July. Did you 
know that ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Theo, looking actually 


“ Theor 


405 


pleased, and blushing beautifully as he looked 
down at her. “ But I am very much obliged 
to you for telling me, Mr. Oglethorpe.” 

“ Why?” he asked. It was very preposter- 
ous, that even though his mood was so pro- 
saic and paternal, he was absurdly, vacantly 
sensible of feeling some uneasiness at the 
brightness of her upturned face. For pity’s 
sake, why was it that he was impelled to such 
a puerile weakness — such a vanity, as he sternly 
called it. 

“ Because,” returned Theo, “ it makes me feel 

as if . I mean it makes me happy to think 

you trust me enough to tell me about what has 
made you happy. I hope — oh ! I do hope Miss 
Briscilla Gower will like me.” 

He had been looking straight before him 
while she spoke, but this brought his eyes to 
hers again, and to her face — bright, appealing, 
up -turned — and he found himself absolutely 
obliged to steady himself with a jesting speech. 

“ My dearest Theodora,” he said, “ Miss 
Priscilla Gower could not po^ibly help it.” 
Comforting as this assurance was to her, it 
must be confessed she found herself somewhat 
overawed on reaching Broome Street, and be- 


4 o6 


“ Theor 


ing taken into the tiny, dwarfed-looking parlor 
of number twenty-three ; Miss Elizabeth Gower 
herself was there, in her company cap, and long- 
cherished company dress of snuff-colored satin. 
There were not many shades of difference in 
either her snuff-colored gown, or her snuff-col- 
ored skin, or her neat, snuff-colored false front, 
Theo fancied, but she was not at all afraid of 
her. She was a trifle afraid of Miss Priscilla. 
Miss Priscilla was sitting at the table reading 
when they entered, and as she rose to greet 
them, holding her book in one hand, the 
thought entered Theo’s mind that she could 
comprehend dimly why Lady Throckmorton 
disliked her, and thought her unsuited to Denis 
Oglethorpe. There was an absence of any- 
thing girl-like in her fine, ivory-pale face, some- 
how, though it was a young face and a hand- 
some face, at whose fine lines and clear contour 
even a connoisseur could not have caviled. Its 
almond-shaped, agate-gray eyes, black-fringed 
and lustrous as they were, still were silent 
eyes — they did not speak, even to Denis Ogle- 
thorpe. 

“ I am glad you have come/’ she said, sim- 
ply, extending her hand in acknowledgment of 


“ The or 


407 


Denis’s introduction. The quietness of this 
greeting speech was a fair sample of all her 
manner. It would have been sheerly impossi- 
ble to expect anything like effusiveness from 
Priscilla Gower. The most sanguine and emp- 
ty-headed of mortals would never have looked 
for it in her. She was constitutionally unen- 
thusiastic. 

But she was gravely curious in this case con- 
cerning Theodora North. The fact that Denis 
had spoken of her admiringly was sufficient to 
arouse in her mind an interest in this young 
creature, who was at once, and so inconsist- 
ently, beautiful, timid, and regal, without con- 
sciousness. 

“ Three years more will make her something 
wonderful, as far as beauty is concerned,” he 
had said ; and, accordingly, she had felt some 
slight pleasure in the anticipation of seeing 

her. 

Yet Theo had some faint misgivings during 
the day as to whether Miss Priscilla Gower 
Would like her or not. She was at first even 
inclined to fear that she would not, being so 
l^ery handsome, and grave, and womanly. But, 
toward the end of their journeying together, 


“ The or 



she felt more hopeful. Reticent as she was, 
Priscilla Gower was a very charming young 
person. She talked well, and with much clear, 
calm sense ; she laughed musically when she 
laughed at all, and could make very telling, 
caustic speeches when occasion required ; but 
still it was singular what a wide difference the 
difference of six years made in the two girls. 
As Lady Throckmorton had said, it was not a 
matter of age. At twenty-two, Theodora 
North would overflow with youth as joyously 
as she did now at seventeen ; at seventeen Pris- 
cilla Gower had assisted her maiden aunt’s 
lodger to copy his manuscript with as mature a 
gravity as she would have displayed to-day. 

“ I hope,” said Theodora, when, after their 
sight-seeing was over, she stood on the pave- 
ment before the door in Broome Street, her 
nice little hand on Denis Oglethorpe’s arm, “ I 
hope you will let me come to see you again, 
Miss Gower.” 

Priscilla, standing upon the door-step, smiled 
down on her blooming girl’s face a smile that 
was a little like moonlight. All Priscilla’s 
smiles were like moonlight. Theo’s had a de- 
licious glow of the sun. 


“ The or 


409 


“Yes/’ she said, in her practical manner. 
“ It will please me very much to see you, Miss 
Theodora. Come as often as you can spare 
the time.” 

She watched the two as they walked down 
the street together, Theo’s black feather, glossy 
in the gaslight, as it drooped its long end 
against Oglethorpe’s coat, and, as she watched 
them, she noticed even this trifle of the feather, 
and the trifling fact, that though Theo was 
almost regal in girlish height, she was not much 
taller than her companion’s shoulder. It was 
strange, she thought afterward, that she should 
have done so ; but even while thinking it 
strange in the afterward that came to her, she 
remembered it all as distinctly as ever, and 
knew that to the last day of her life she would 
never quite forget the quiet of the narrow, 
dreary street, the yellow light of the gas-lamps, 
and the two figures walking away into the 
shadow, with their backs toward her, the girl 
holding Denis Oglethorpe’s arm, and the glossy 
feather in her black hat drooping its tip upon 
his shoulder. 


4io 


“The or 


CHAPTER IV. 

A DIARY AND A VISIT. 

Up-STAIRS, in a sacred corner of the chamber 
Lady Throckmorton had apportioned to her, 
Theodora North kept her diary. Not a solid, 
long-winded diary, full of creditable reflec- 
tions upon the day’s events, but, on the con- 
trary, a harmless little book enough — a pretty 
little book, bound in pink and gold, and much 
ornamented about the corners, and greatly 
embellished with filigree clasps. Lady Throck- 
morton had given it to her because she admired 
it, and, in a very natural enthusiasm, she had 
made a diary of it. And here are the entries 
first recorded in its gilt-edged pages. 

December 7. — Mr. Oglethorpe was so kind as 
to remember his promise about showing me 
the lions. Enjoyed myself very much. Miss 
Priscilla Gower went with us. She is very 
dignified, or something; but I think I like her. 
I am sure I like her, so I will go to see her 
again. I wonder how it is she reminds me of 
Pamela without being like Pamela at all. 


“ Theor 


411 


Poor Pam was always so sharp in her ways, and 
I do not think Miss Gower ever could speak 
sharply at all. And yet she reminds me of 
Pam. 

December 14. — Went to the theatre again 
with Lady Throckmorton and Mr. Oglethorpe. 
I wonder if the rose-pink satin is not becoming 
to me? I thought it was; but before I went 
up stairs to dress, Mr. Oglethorpe said to me, 
“ Don’t put on the rose-pink satin, Theodora.” 
I am sorry that he does not think it is pretty. 
Wore a thin, white muslin dress, and dear, 
dearest old Pamela's beautiful sapphires. The 
muslin had a long train. 

December 18. — Mr. Oglethorpe came to-night 
with a kind message from Miss Gower. 

From these innocent extracts, persons of an 
unlimited experience might draw serious con- 
clusions ; but when she made said entries, 
kneeling before her toilet-table each night, our 
dear Theodora thought nothing about them at 
all. She had nothing else in particular to write 
about at present, so, in default of finding a 
better subject, she jotted down guileless re- 
membrances of Denis Oglethorpe and the 
length of her trains. 


412 


“ The or 


But one memorable evening, on going into 
the sitting-room, with the pink and gold vol- 
ume in her hand, she encountered Sir Dugald, 
who seemed to be in an extraordinary frame 
of mind, and, withal, nothing loth to meet 
her. 

“What pretty book have you there, Theo- 
dora?” he asked, in his usual amiably uncivil- 
ized manner. 

“It is my diary,” Theo answered. “Lady 
Throckmorton gave it to me. I put things 
down in it.” 

“ Oh, oh ! ” was the reply, taking hold of both 
Sabre’s ears, and chuckling. “ Put things 
down, do you? What sort of things do you 
put down, eh, pretty Theodora? Lovers, eh? 
Literary men, eh ? ” 

Theo grew pink all over — pink as to cheeks, 
pink as to slim white throat, even pink as to 
small ears. She was frightened, and her fright 
was of a kind such as she had never expe- 
rienced before. But it was not Sir Dugald she 
was afraid of — she was used to him. It was 
something new of which she had never thought 
until this very instant. 

“Literary men, eh?” Sir Dugald went on. 


“ The or 


413 


“ Do you put down what their names are, and 
what they do, and how they make mistakes, 
and take the wrong young lady to see Norma, 
and Faust, and II Trovatore? II Trovatore’s 
a nice opera, and Leonora sounds something 
like Theodora. It doesn’t sound anything like 
Priscilla, does it ? The devil fly away with 
Priscilla, I say. Priscilla isn’t musical, is it 
Leonora ? ” 

Once having freed herself from him, which 
was by no means an easy matter, Tlieo flew 
up stairs tremulous, breathless, flushed. She 
did not stop to think. She had seen the draw- 
ing-room empty and unlighted, save by a dull 
fire, on her way down stairs, so she turned to 
the drawing-room. She had been conscious of 
nothing but Sir Dugald, so she had not heard 
the hall-cloor open ; and not having heard the 
hall-door open, had, of course, not heard Denis 
Oglethorpe come in. So, in running into the 
fire-lit room, she broke in upon that gentle- 
man, who was standing in the shadow, and it 
must be confessed was rather startled by her 
sudden entrance and curiously excited face. 

He stopped her short, however, collectedly 
enough. 

o 


414 


“ Theor 


“ What is the matter, Theodora?” he de- 
manded. 

She slipped down upon a footstool, all in a 
flutter, when she saw him, she w T as so shaken ; 
and then, in her sudden abasement and breath- 
less tremor, gave vent to a piteous little half- 
sob, though she was terribly ashamed of it. 

“ I — I don't know,” she answered him. “ It’s 
— it’s nothing at all.” But he knew better than 
that, and, guessing very shrewdly that he w r as 
not wholly unconnected with the matter himself, 
questioned her as closely as was consistent with 
delicacy, and, in the end, after some diplomacy, 
and a few more of the surprised, piteous, little 
unwilling half-sobs, gleaned a great deal of the 
truth from her. 

“ It w^as only — only something Sir Dugald 
said about you and Miss Gower, and — and 
something about me,” she added, desperately. 

“ Oh ! ” he said, looking so composed about 

it that the very sight of his composure calmed 

her, and made her begin to think she had seen 

a mountain in a mole-hill. “ Sir Dugald ? 

Only Sir Dugald. What did he say, may I ask, 

as it — it is about mvself and Miss Gower? ” 

✓ 

Of course he might ask, but the difficulty 


“ Theo. ” 


4i5 


lay in gaining any definite answer. Theodora 
blushed, and then turned a little pale, looking 
wondrously abased in her uncalled-for confu- 
sion ; but she was not at all coherent in her ex- 
planations, which were really not meant for 
explanations at all. 

“ II Trovatore was so beautiful ! ” she burst 
out, finally; “and so was Faust; and I had 
never been to the opera in all my life before, 

and, of course ’’ blushing and palpitating, 

but still looking at him without a shade of 
falsehood in her innocent, straightforward eyes, 
“of course, I couldn’t. How could I be so 
silly, and vain, and presuming, as to think of — 
of— of ” 

She stopped here, as might be expected, and, 
if the room had been light enough, she might 
have seen a shadow fall on Oglethorpe’s face, 
as he prompted her. 

“ Of what ? ” 

Her eyes fell. 

“ Of what Sir D ugald said,” she ended, in a 
troubled half whisper. 

There was a slight pause, in which both pairs 
of eyes looked down — Theodora’s upon the 
rug of tiger-skin at her feet, Oglethorpe’s at 


“ Theor 


416 

Theodora herself. They were treading upon 
dangerous ground, he knew, and yet, in the 
midst of his fierce anger at his weakness, he 
was conscious of a regret — a contemptible re- 
gret, he told himself — that the eyes she had 
raised to his own a moment ago, had been so 
very clear and guilelessly honest in their ac- 
cordance with the declaration her lips had 
made. 

“ But my dear Theodora,” he at length broke 
the silence by saying, carelessly, “ why should 
we trouble ourselves about that elderly Goth, 
or Vandal, if you choose — Sir Dugald. Who 
does trouble themselves about Sir Dugald, and 
his amiably ponderous jocoseness? Not Lady 
Throckmorton, I am sure ; not society in gen- 
eral, you must know ; consequently, let us 
treat Sir Dugald with silent contempt, in a 
glorious consciousness of our own spotless in- 
nocence. 

He was uneasy under his satirical indif- 
ference ; though he was so accustomed to con- 
ceal his thoughts under indifference and satire, 
he was scarcely sure enough of himself at this 
minute : but, despite this, he carried out the 
assumed mood pretty well. 


“ The or 


4i7 


“ We have no need to be afraid of Sir Du- 
gald’s Vandalism if we have no fear of our- 
selves, and, considering, as you so very justly 
observed, that it is quite impossible for us to 
be silly, and vain, and presuming toward each 
other, I think we must be quite safe. I be- 
lieve you said it would be impossible, Theo- 
dora ? ” 

Just one breath's space, and Theodora North 
looked up at him, as it were through the influ- 
ence of an electric flash of recognition. There 
was a wild, sweet, troubled color on her cheeks, 
and her lips were trembling ; her whole face 
seemed to tremble ; her very eyes had a vary- 
ing, tremulous glow. 

“ Quite impossible, wasn’t it, Theodora?” 
he repeated, and though he had meant it for 
nothing more than a careless, daring speech, 
his voice changed in defiance of him, and al- 
tered, or seemed to alter, both words and their 
meaning. What, in the name of madness, he 
would have been rash enough to say next, in 
response to the tremor of light and color in 
the upturned face, it would be hard to say, for 
here he was stopped, as it were, by Fortune 
herself. 


6 


418 


“ Theor 


Fortune come in the form of Lady Throck- 
morton, fresh from Trollope’s last, and in a 
communicative mood. 

“ Ah ! You are here, Denis, and you, too 
Theodora? Why are you sitting in the 
dark?” And, as she bent over to touch the 
bell, Theodora rose from her footstool to make 
way for her — rose with a little sigh, as if she 
had just been awakened from a dream which 
was neither happy nor sad. 

It was very plainly Lady Throckmorton’s 
business to see, and seeing, to understand the 
affairs of her inexperienced young relative ; but 
if Lady Throckmorton understood that Theo- 
dora North was unconsciously endangering the 
peace of her girlish heart, Lady Throckmorton 
was very silent, or very indifferent about the 
matter. But she was not moulded after the 
manner of the stern female guardians usually 
celebrated in love stories. She was not mer- 
cenary, and she was by no means authoritative. 
She had sent for Theo with the intention of 
extending to her the worldly assistance she had 
extended to Pamela, and, beyond that, the 
matter lay in the girl’s own hands. Lady 
Throckmorton had no high views for her in 


“ Theor 


419 


particular; she wanted to see her enjoy herself 
as much as possible until the termination of her 
visit, let it terminate, matrimonially or other- 
wise. Besides, she was not so young as she 
had been in Pamela’s time, and, consequently, 
though she was reasonably fond of her hand- 
some niece, and more than usually generous 
toward her, she was inclined to let her follow 
her own devices. For herself, she had her 
luxurious little retiring-room, with its luxu- 
rious fires and lounges; and after these, or 
rather with these, came an abundance of nov- 
els, and the perfect, creamy chocolate her 
French cook made such a masterpiece of — 
novels and chocolate standing as elderly and 
refined dissipations. And not being troubled 
with any very strict ideas of right or wrong, it 
would, by no means, have annoyed her ladyship 
to know that her handsome Theodora had out- 
generaled her pet grievance, Priscilla Gower. 
Why should not Priscilla Gower be out-gener- 
aled, and why should not Denis marry some 
one who was as much better suited to him, as 
Theodora North plainly was?” 

“ Tut ! tut ! ” she said to Sir Dugald. “ Why 
shouldn’t they be married to each other? It 


420 


“TAeo” 


would be better than Priscilla Gower, if Theo- 
dora had nothing but Pam’s gray satin for her 
bridal trousseau.” 

So Theo was left to herself, and having no 
confidant but the pink and gold journal, grad- 
ually began to trust to its pages some very 
troubled reflections. It had not occurred to 
her that she could possibly be guilty in admir- 
ing Mr. Denis Oglethorpe so much as she did, 
and in feeling so glad when he came, and so 
sorry when he went away. She had not thought 
that it was because he was sitting near her, 
and talking to her between the acts, that II 
Trovatore and Faust had been so thrillingly 
beautiful and tender. And this was quite 
true, even though she had not begun to com- 
prehend it as yet. 

She had no right to feel anxious about him ; 
and yet, when, after having committed himself 
in the rash manner chronicled, he did not make 
his appearance for nearly two weeks, she was 
troubled in no slight degree. Indeed, though 
the thought was scarcely defined, she had some 
unsophisticated misgivings as to whether Miss 
Priscilla Gower might not have been aroused 
to a sense of the wrongs done her through the 


“ Theor 


421 


medium of II Trovatore, and so have laid an 
interdict upon his visits ; but it was only 
Sir D ugald who had suggested this to her 
fancy. 

But by the end of the two weeks, she grew 
tired of waiting, and the days were so very 
long, that at length, not without some slight 
compunction, she made up her mind to go 
and pay a guileless visit to Miss Priscilla Gower 
herself. 

“ I am going to see Miss Gower, aunt,” she 
ventured to say one morning at the breakfast- 
table. 

Sir Dugald looked up from his huge slice of 
broiled venison, clumsily jocose after his cus- 
tomary agreeable manner. 

“What’s that, Leonora?” he said. “Going 
to see the stern vestal, are you ? Priscilla, 
eh?” 

Lady Throckmorton shrugged her shoulders 
in an indifferent sarcasm. She was often both 
sarcastic and indifferent in her manner toward 
Sir Dugald. 

“ Theo’s in-goings and out-goings are scarcely 
our business, so long as she enjoys herself,” she 
said. “ Present my regards to the Miss Gow- 


422 


“Theo.” 


ers, my dear, and say I regret that my health 
does not permit me to accompany you.” 

A polite fiction, by the way, as my lady was 
looking her best. It was only upon state occa- 
sions, and solely on Denis’s account, that she 
ever submitted to Broome Street, albeit the fat, 
gray horses, and fat, gray coachman did occa- 
sionally recognize the existence of that remote 
locality. 

It so happened that, as they drew up before 
Miss Gower’s modest door, this morning, the 
modest door in question opened, and Denis 
Oglethorpe himself came out, and, of course, 
caught sight of Theodora North, who had just 
bent forward to pull the check-string, and so 
gave him a full view of her charming face, 
and, in her pleasure at seeing him, that young 
lady forgot both herself and Sir Dugald, and 
exclaimed aloud, 

“ Oh, Mr. Oglethorpe ! ” she cried out. “ I 
am so glad ” and then stopped, in a confu- 

sion and trepidation absolutely brilliant. 

He came to the window, and looked in at 
her. 

“ Are you coming to see Priscilla?” he said, 

“Lady Throckmorton said I might,” she an- 


“The or 


423 


swered, the warmth in her face chilled by his 
unenthusiastic, though kindly tone. She did 
not know what a struggle it cost him to face 
her thus carelessly all at once. 

He did not even open the carriage door him- 
self, but waited for the footman to do it. 

“ Priscilla will be glad to see you,” he said, 
quietly. “ I will go into the house again with 
you. 

The dwarfed sitting-room looked very much 
as it had looked on Theo’s first introduction to 
it ; but on this occasion Miss Elizabeth was 
not arrayed in the snuff-colored satin ; and, 
when they entered, Priscilla was kneeling down 
upon the hearth-rug, straightening out an ob- 
streperous fold in it. 

She rose, collectedly, at once, and, as her 
face turned toward them, Theo was struck with 
some fancy of its being a shade paler than it 
had been the last time she had seen it. But 
her manner was not changed in the least, and 
she welcomed her visitor with grave cordiality. 
Poor little snuff-colored Miss Elizabeth was 
delighted. She was getting very fond of com- 
pany in her old age, and had taken a great 
fancy to Theodora North. 


424 


“ Theor 


“ Send the carriage away, and stay with us 
until evening, Miss Theodora,” she fluttered, 
in mild, old-maidenly excitement. “ Do stay, 
Miss Theodora, and I will show you how to do 
the octagon stitch, as I promised the last time 
you were here. You remember how you ad- 
mired it in that antimacassar I was making for 
Priscilla?” 

Miss Elizabeth’s chief delight and occupation 
was the making of miraculously-gorgeous mys- 
teries for Priscilla ; and Theo’s modest eulogies 
of her last piece of work had won her admira- 
tion and regard at once. Consequently, under 
stress of Miss Elizabetn, the carriage was fain 
to depart, much to the abasement of the fat, 
gray coachman, who felt himself much dishon- 
ored in finding he was compelled, not only to 
pay majestic calls to Broome Street, but to 
acknowledge the humiliating fact of friendly 
visits. 

“ We must have a fire in the best parlor, 
my dear,” chirped Elizabeth, ecstatically, when 
Theo’s hat and jacket were being carried out 
of the room. “ Don’t forget to tell Jane, Pris- 
cilla, and — ” fumbling in her large side- 
pocket, “ here’s the key of the preserve closet. 


“ Theor 


4 2 S 


Quince preserve, my dear, and white currant- 
jelly.” 

Theodora was reminded of Down port that 
day, in a hundred ways. The nice little com- 
pany-dinner reminded her of it ; the solitary 
little roast fowl, and the preserves, and pud- 
dings ; but the company dinners at Downport 
had always been detracted from by the sharp 
annoyance in Pam’s face, and the general do- 
mestic bustle, and the total inadequacy of 
gravy and stuffing to the wants of the boys. 
She was particularly reminded of it by the 
ceremonious repairing to the fire, in the front 
parlor, where everything was so orderly, and 
even the family portraits had the appearance 
of family portraits roused from a deep reverie 
to be surprised at an intrusion. 

“ My late lamented parents, my dear,” said 
Miss Elizabeth, rubbing her spectacles, and ad- 
miringly regarding an owldike, elderly gentle- 
man, in an aggressive brown wig, and an 
equally owl-like lady, in a self-announcing false 
front embarrassingly suggestive of Miss Eliza- 
beth’s own. “ My late lamented parents, at 
the respective ages of fifty and fifty-seven. My 
sister Anastasia, my only brother, my sister- 


4 26 


“ The or 


in-law, his wife, and my dear Priscilla, at seven- 
teen years.” 

Theo turned from the others to look at this 
last with a deeper interest ; remembered that 
it was when she was seventeen that Priscilla 
had first met Denis Oglethorpe. It was a 
small picture, half life-size, and set in an oval 
frame of black walnut. Priscilla at seventeen 
had not been very different from Priscilla at 
twenty-two. She had a pale, handsome, un- 
girlish face — a Minerva face, — steady, grave, 
handsome eyes, and a fine head, unadorned, 
save with a classic knot of black-brown hair. 
The picture was not even younger-looking than 
Priscilla was now. 

Miss Elizabeth regarded it in affectionate 
admiration of its beauty. 

“ My dear,” she said to Theodora, “ that is 
the most beautiful face in London, to my old 
eyes. It reminds me of my dear Anastasia in 
her youth. I was always glad my brother Ben- 
jamin’s daughter was not like his wife. We 
were not fond of my brother Benjamin’s wife. 
She was a very giddy young person, and very 
fond of gayety. She died of lung fever, con- 
tracted through exposing herself one night at 


“ The or 


427 


a military ball, in direct opposition to my 
brother Benjamin’s wishes. She insisted upon 
wearing blue satin slippers, and a low-necked 
dress.” 

“ Oh dear ! ” said Theodora, secretly con- 
scious of a guilty sympathy for the giddy young 
person who ran counter to brother Benjamin’s 
wishes, in the matter of military balls and 
blue satin slippers. 

“ Yes, my love ! ” Miss Elizabeth proceeded. 
“ And for that reason I was always glad to find 
that Priscilla was not at all like her. Priscilla 
and I have been very happy together in our 
quiet way; she has been the best of dear, good 
girls to me. Indeed, I really don't know what 
I shall do when I must lose her, as of course 
you know I shall be obliged to, when she mar- 
ries Mr. Denis Oglethorpe ! ” 

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Theo, and, as 
she spoke, she felt a glow flash over her. 
This was the first time an actual approach 
to the subject had been made in her pres- 
ence. 

“ Yes, my dear ! ” said Miss Elizabeth again. 
“ I shall feel the separation very deeply, but it 
must be, you know. They have waited so long 


428 


“Theo.” 


for each other, that I should be a very wicked, 
selfish old woman to throw any obstacle, even 
so slight a one as my own discomfort, in their 
way. Don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, madame,” Theo faltered, very un- 
steadily, indeed. 

But Miss Elizabeth did not notice any hesi- 
tation in her manner, and went on with her 
confidential chat, eulogizing Priscilla and her 
betrothed affectionately. Mr. Denis Ogle- 
thorpe would be a rich man some of these 
days, and then what a happy life must Priscil- 
la’s be — so young, so beautiful, so beloved. 
“ Not that wealth brings happiness, my dear 
Miss Theodora. Riches are very deceitful, you 
know ; but there is a great deal of solid com- 
fort in a genteel sufficiency.” 

To all of which Theo acquiesced, modestly, 
inwardly wondering if she was very wrong in 
wishing that Mr. Oglethorpe had not left 
them quite so early. 

The day passed pleasantly enough, however, 
in a quiet way. Miss Elizabeth was very af- 
fectionate and communicative, and told her a 
great many stories of Anastasia, and the late 
lamented Benjamin, as they sat by the fire to- 


“ Theor 


429 


gether in the evening and blundered over the 
octagon-stitch. It was an Afghan Miss Eliza- 
beth was making now ; and when, at tea-time, 
Mr. Oglethorpe came, he found Theodora 
North sitting on the hearth, flushed with in- 
dustrious anxiety, and thrown into a reflected 
glow of brilliant Berlin wools, a beautiful young 
spider in a gorgeous Afghan web. 

“ I should like,’’ she was saying, as he en- 
tered, “ to buy Pamela and the girls some nice 
little presents. What would you advise me to 
get, Miss Gower?” 

She was very faithful to the shabby house- 
hold at Downport. Her letters were never 
careless or behind time, and no one was ever 
neglected in the multiplicity of messages. She 
would be the most truthful and faithful of lov- 
ing women a few years hence, this handsome 
Theodora. There was some reserve in her 
manner toward Denis this evening. She at- 
tended to Miss Elizabeth’s octagon-stitch, and 
left him to amuse Priscilla. He had not seemed 
very much pleased to see her in the morning, 
and, besides, Priscilla was plainly his business. 
But, when the carriage was announced, and 
she returned to the parlor, after an absence of 


43 ° 


“ The or 


a few minutes, drawing on her gloves, and but- 
toning her pretty jacket close up to her beau- 
tiful, slender, dusky throat, Denis took his hat, 
and accompanied her to the carriage. He did 
not wait for the footman this time ; but, after 
assisting her to get in, closed the door himself, 
and leaned against the open window for a mo- 
ment. 

“ I want you to deliver a message to Lady 
Throckmorton for me,” he said. “ May I 
trouble you, Theodora? ” 

She bent her head with an unpleasantly 
quickened heart-beat. It was very foolish, of 
course, but she felt as if something painful was 
going to happen, and nothing on earth could 
prevent it. 

“ Business has unexpectedly called me away 
from London — from England,” he explained, 
in a strange, yet quite steady voice. “ I am 
obliged to go to Belgium at once, and my af- 
fairs are in such a condition that I may be 
compelled to remain across the channel for 
some time. Be good enough to say to Lady 
Throckmorton that I regret deeply that I could 
not see her before going ; but — but the news 
has been sudden, and my time is fully occu- 


“ Theo." 


43 * 


pied ; but I will write to her from my first stop- 
ping-place.” 

“ I will tell her,” said Theodora. 

“ Thank you,” he replied, courteously, and 
then, after a short hesitation, began again, in 
the tone he used so often — the tonathat might 
be jest or earnest. “ And now there is some- 
thing else, a subject upon which I wish to ask 
your unbiased opinion, my dear Theodora, be- 
fore I say good-by. When a man finds himself 
in a danger with which he cannot combat, and 
remain human — in danger, where defeat means 
dishonor, do you not agree with me, that the 
safest plan that man can adopt is to run away? ” 
Her quickened heart might almost have been 
running a life and death race with her leaping 
pulse, but she answered him quite steadily. 

“Yes,” she said to him. “You are quite 
right. He had better go away.” 

“Thank you,” he returned again. “Then 
you will give me your hand, and wish me God 
speed ; and, perhaps — I say perhaps — you will 
answer me another question. This morning, 
when you spoke to me through the carriage- 
window, you began to say something about 
being glad. Were you going to say ” He 


43 2 


“ The or 


broke off here sharply. “ No ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ I will not ask you.” 

“ I was going to say that I was glad to see 
you,” Theo interrupted, gravely. “ I was glad 
to see you. And now, perhaps you had better 
tell the coachman to drive on. I will deliver 
your message to Lady Throckmorton ; and as 
I shall not see you again, unless I am here in 
July — Of course you will come back then — 
Good-by, Mr. Oglethorpe.” 

She gave him her hand through the carriage- 
window, and for a moment, he held it, to all 
appearance quite calm, as he looked down at 
the lovely face, the flare of an adjacent gas- 
light revealed to him against a back-ground of 
shadow. 

“ Good-by,” he said, and then released it. 
“ Drive on,” he called to the coachman, and, in 
a moment more, he stood alone watching the 
carriage turn the corner. 


“ Theor 


433 


CHAPTER V. 

ARE YOU LIKE HER? 

“ Mr. Denis Oglethorpe has gone away. 
He will not come back again until July, when 
he is to marry Miss Gower.” 

This was the last entry recorded in the little 
pink-and-gold journal, and after it came a gap 
of months. 

It was midnight after the memorable day 
spent in Broome Street that the record was 
made, and having made it, Theodora North 
shut the book with a startled feeling that she 
had shut within its pages an unfinished page 
of her life. 

It was a strange feeling to have come upon 
her so suddenly, and there was a kind of 
desperateness in its startling strength. It was 
startling ; it had come upon her without a 
moment’s warning, it seemed, and yet, if she 
had been conscious of it, there had been warn- 
ing enough. Warning enough for an older wo- 
man — warning enough for Denis Oglethorpe ; 
but it had not seemed warning to a girl of 

7 


434 


“ Theor 


scarcely seventeen years. But she understood 
it now ; she had understood it the moment he 
told her in that strained, steady voice that he 
was going away. She had delivered his message 
to Lady Throckmorton, and listened quietly 
to her wondering comments, answering them 
as best she could. She had waited patiently 
until Sir Dugald’s barbarous eleven o’clock 
supper was over, and then she had gone to her 
room, stirred the hre, and dropped down upon 
the hearth-rug to think it over. She thought 
over it for a long time, her handsome eyes 
brooding over the red coals, but after about 
half an hour she spoke out aloud to the silence 
of the room. 

“ He loved me,” she said. “ He loved me — 
me. Poor Priscilla ! Ah, poor Priscilla ! How 
sorry I am for you/’ 

She was far more sorry for Priscilla than she 
was for herself, though it was Priscilla who had 
won the lover, and herself who had lost him 
for ever. She cared for him so much more 
deeply than she realized as yet, that she would 
rather lose him, knowing he loved her, than 
win him feeling uncertain. The glow in her 
eyes died away in tears, but she was too young 


“ Theo r 


435 


to realize despair or anything like it. The 
truth was that the curious enchantment of the 
day had not been altogether sad, and at seven- 
teen one does not comprehend that fate can 
be wholly bitter, or that some turn in fortune 
is not in store for the future, however hopeless 
the present may seem. 

In this mood the entry was made in the little 
journal, and, having made it, Theodora North 
cried a little, hoped a little, and wondered 
guilelessly how matters could end with perfect 
justice to Priscilla Gower. 

The household seemed rather quiet after the 
change. Mr. Denis Oglethorpe was a man to 
be missed under any circumstances — and Theo 
was not the only one who missed him. Lady 
Throckmorton missed him also, but she had 
the solace of her novels and her chocolate, 
which Theo had not. Novels had been de- 
lightful at Downport, when they were read in 
hourly fear of the tasks that always interfered 
to prevent any indulgence ; but in these days, 
for some reason, they were not as satisfactory 
as they appeared once, and so being thrown on 
her own resources, she succumbed to the very 
natural girlish weakness of feeling a sort of fas- 


436 


“The 0." 


cination for Broome Street. It was hard to 
resist Broome Street, knowing that there must 
be news to be heard there, and so she grad- 
ually fell into the habit of paying visits, more 
to Miss Elizabeth Gower than to her niece. 
The elder Miss Gower was always communica- 
tive, and always ready to talk about her favor- 
ites, and to Tlieo, in her half-puzzled, half-sad 
frame of mind, this was a curious consolation. 
The two spent hours together, sometimes, in 
the tiny parlor, stumbling over Berlin wool 
difficulties, and now and then wandering to 
and fro, conversationally, from Priscilla to the 
octagon stitch, and from the octagon stitch to 
Denis. 

Priscilla was prone to reserve, and rarely 
joined them in their talks; and, besides, she 
was so often busy, that if she had felt the in- 
clination to do so, she had not the time to in- 
dulge it. But she was even more silent than 
she had seemed at first, Theo thought, and she 
was sure her pale, handsome face was paler, 
though, of course, that was easily to be ac- 
counted for by her lover’s absence. 

She was a singular girl, this Priscilla Gower. 
The first time Theo ever saw her display an 


“ Theo." 


437 


interest in anybody, or in anything, was when 

she first heard Pamela’s love storv mentioned. 

✓ 

She was sitting at work near them, when 
Theo chanced to mention Arthur Brunwalde, 
and, to her surprise, Priscilla looked from her 
desk immediately. 

u He was your sister’s lover, was he not ? ” 
she said, with an abrupt interest in the subject. 

“Yes,” answered Theo ; “but he died, you 
know.” 

Priscilla nodded. 

“ The week before their wedding-day,” she 
said. “ Mr. Oglethorpe told me so.” 

Theo answered in the affirmative again. 

“And poor Pam could not forget him,” she 
added, her usual tender reverence for poor 
Pam showing itself in her sorrowing voice. 
“ She was very pretty then, and Lady Throck- 
morton was angry because she would not marry 
anybody else ; but Pamela never cared for any- 
body else.” 

Priscilla got up from her chair, and, coming 
to the hearth, leaned against the low mantel, 
pen in hand. She looked down on Theodora 
North with a curious expression in her cold, 
handsome eyes. 


43 $ 


“ Theor 


“ Is your sister like you ?” she asked. 

Her tone was such a strange one that Theo 
lifted her face with a faint, startled look. 

“ No,” she replied, almost timidly. “ Pa- 
mela is fairer than I am, and not so tall. We 
are not alike at all.” 

“ I was not thinking of that,” said Priscilla. 
“ I was wondering if you were alike in disposi- 
tion. I think I was wondering most whether 
you would be as faithful as Pamela.” 

“ That is a strange question,” Miss Elizabeth 
interposed. “ Theodora has not been tried.” 

But Priscilla was looking straight at Theo’s 
downcast eyes. 

“ But I think Theodora knows,” she said, 
briefly. “ Are you like your sister in that, 
Theodora ? I remember hearing Mr. Ogle- 
thorpe say once you would be.” 

Theo dropped her ivory crochet-needle, and 
bent to pick it up, with a blurred vision and 
nervous fingers. 

“I cannot tell,” she said. “I am not old 
enough to know yet.” 

“You are seventeen,” said Priscilla. “I 
knew at seventeen.” 

Theo recovered the needle, and reset it in 


“Theo." 


439 


her work to give herself time, and then she 
looked up and faced her questioner bravely, in 
a sort of desperateness. 

“ If I knew that I loved any one. If I had 
ever loved any one as Pamela loved Mr. Brun- 
walde, I should be like Pamela,” she said. “ I 
should never love any one else.” 

From that time she fancied that Priscilla 
Gower liked her better than she had done be- 
fore ; at any rate, she took more notice of her, 
though she was never effusive, of course. 

She talked to her oftener, and seemed to 
listen while she talked, even though she was 
busy at the time. She said to her once that 
she would like to know Pamela ; and embold- 
ened by this, Theo ventured to bring one of 
Pam’s letters to read to her ; and when she 
had read it, told the whole story of her sister’s 
generosity in a little burst of enthusiastic love 
and gratitude that fairly melted tender-hearted 
old Miss Elizabeth to tears, and caused her to 
confide afterward to Theo the fact that she 
herself had felt the influence of the tender pas- 
sion, in consequence of the blandishments of a 
single gentleman of uncertain age, whose per- 
formances upon the flute had been the means 


44 o 


tt 


The or 


of winning her affections, but had unhappily 
resulted in his contracting a fatal cold while 
serenading on a damp evening. 

“ He used to play ‘ In a Cottage near a 
Wood,’ my dear, most beautifully,” said Miss 
Elizabeth, with mild pathos, “ though I regret 
to say that, as we did not live in a musical 
neighborhood, the people next door did not 
appreciate it ; the gentleman of the house even 
going so far as to say that he was not sorry 
when he died, as he did a few weeks after the 
cold settled on his dear, weak lungs. He was 
the only lover I ever had, my dear Theodora, 
and his name was Elderberry, a very singular 
name, by the way, but he was a very talented 
man.” 

When Theo went into the little back bedroom 
that evening to put on her hat, Priscilla Gower 
went with her, and, as she stood before the 
dressing-table buttoning her sacque, she was 
somewhat puzzled by the expression on her 
companion’s face. Priscilla had taken up her 
muff, and was stroking the white fur, her eyes 
downcast upon her hand as it moved to and 
fro, the ring upon its forefinger shining in the 
gaslight. 


“ Theo r 


441 


“ I had a letter from Mr. Oglethorpe yester- 
day,” Priscilla said, at last. “ He is in Vienna 
now ; he asked if you were well. To-night I 
shall answer him. Have you any message to 
send ? ” 

“ I ? ” said Theo. It seemed to her so strange 
a thing for Miss Priscilla Gower to say, that 
her pronoun was almost an interjection. 

“ I thought, perhaps,” said Priscilla, quietly, 
“that a message from you would gratify him, 
if you had one to send.” 

Theo took up her gloves and began to draw 
them on, a sudden feeling of pain or discomfort 
striking her. It was a feeling scarcely defined 
enough to allow her to decide whether it was 
real pain or only discomfort. 

“ I do not think I have any message to 
send,” she replied. “ Thank you, Miss Pris' 
cilia.” 

She took her muff then, and went back to 
the parlor to kiss Miss Elizabeth in a strange 
frame of mind. She was beginning to feel 
more strongly concerning Mr. Denis Ogle- 
thorpe, and it was Priscilla Gower who had 
stirred her heart. She found Lady Throck- 
morton waiting at home for her, to her sur- 


442 


“The or 


prise, in a new mood. She had that evening 
received a letter from Denis herself, and it had 
suggested an idea to her. 

“ I have been thinking, Theo,” she said, 
“ that we might take a run across the Channel 
ourselves. I have not been in Paris for four 
years, and I believe the change would do me 
good. The last time I visited the spas, my 
health improved greatly.” 

It was just like her ladyship to become sud- 
denly possessed of a whim, and to follow its 
lead on the spur of the moment. She was a 
women of caprices, and her caprices always 
ruled the day, as this one did, to Theo’s great 
astonishment. It seemed such a great under- 
taking to Theodora, this voyage of a few hours ; 
but Lady Throckmorton regarded it as the 
lightest of matters. To her it was only the 
giving of a few orders, being uncomfortably 
sea-sick for a while, and then landing in Calais, 
with a waiting-woman who understood her 
business, and a man-servant who was accus- 
tomed to traveling. So, when Theo broke into 
exclamations of pleasure and astonishment, she 
did not understand either her enthusiasm or 
her surprise. 


“Theo." 


443 


“ What/' she said, “ you like the idea, do 
you ? Well, I think I have made up my mind 
about it. We could go next week, and I dare 
say we could reach Vienna before Denis Ogle- 
thorpe goes away.” 

Theo becomes suddenly silent. She gave 
vent to no further, exclamations. She would 
almost have been willing to give up the plea- 
sure of the journey after that. She was learn- 
ing that it was best for her not to see Denis 
Oglethorpe again, and here it seemed that she 
must see him in spite of herself, even though 
she was conscientious enough to wish to do 
what was best, not so much because it was 
best for herself, as because it was just to Pris- 
cilla Gower. But Lady Throckmorton had 
come to a decision, and forthwith made her 
preparations. She even wrote to Vienna, and 
told Denis that they were coming, herself and 
Theodora North, and he must wait and meet 
them if possible. 

It was a great trial to Theodora, this. She 
was actually girlish and sensitive enough to 
fancy that Mr. Denis Oglethorpe might imagine 
their intention to follow him was some fault 
of hers, and she was uncomfortable and ner- 


444 


“Theo.” 


vous accordingly. She hoped he would have 
left Vienna before the letter reached him ; 
she hoped he might go away in spite of it ; 
she hoped it might never reach him at all. 
And yet, in spite of this, she experienced 
a passionately keen sense of disappointment 
when, on the day before their departure, Lady 
Throckmorton received a letter from him re- 
gretting his inability to comply with her re- 
quest, and announcing his immediate depar- 
ture for some place whose name he did not 
mention. Business had called him away, and 
Lady Throckmorton, of course, knew what 
such business was, and how imperative its de- 
mands were. 

“ He might have waited, ” Theo said to her- 
self, with an unexpected, inconsistent feeling 
of wretchedness. “ I would have stayed any- 
where to have seen him only for a minute. He 
had no need to be so ready to go away.” And 
then she found herself burning all over, as it 
were, in her shame at discovering how bold her 
thoughts had been. 

Perhaps this was the first time she really 
awoke to a full consciousness of where she had 
drifted. The current had carried her along so 


“ Theor 


4^5 

far, and she had not been to blame, because 
she had not comprehended her danger ; but 
now it was different. She was awakening, but 
she was at the edge of the cataract, and its 
ominous sounds had alarmed her. 


446 


“ Theo.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

DON’T GO YET. 

The letters that were faithfully written to 
Downport during the following month, were 

the cause of no slight excitement in the house 

• 

of David North, Esq. The children looked 
forward to the reception of them as an event 
worthy of being chronicled. Theo was an 
exact correspondent, and recorded her adven- 
tures and progress with as careful a precision 
as if it had been a matter of grave import 
whether she was in Boulogne or Bordeaux, or 
had stayed at one hotel or the other. It was 
not the pleasantest season of the year to travel, 
she wrote, but it was, of course, the gayest in 
the cities. Lady Throckmorton was very kind 
^nd very generous. She took her out a great 
deal, and spent a great deal of money in sight- 
seeing, which proved conclusively how kind she 
was, as her ladyship knew all the places worth 
looking at, as well as she knew Charing Cross 
or St. Paul’s. And at the end of a month came 
a letter from Paris full of news and description. 


“ Theor 


447 


a We reached Paris three days ago, ,r wrote 
Theo, “ and are going to remain until Lady 
Throckmorton makes up her mind to go some- 
where else, or to return to London. She has 
a great number of friends here who have found 
us out already. She is very fond of Paris, 
and I think would rather stay here than 
anywhere else ; so we may not leave until 
spring. We went to the opera last night, and 
saw Faust again. You remember my telling 
you about going to see Faust in London the 
first time I wore the rose-pink satin. I wore 
the same dress last night, and Lady Throck- 
morton lent me some of her diamonds, and 
made Splaighton puff my hair in a new way. 
Splaighton is my maid, and I don’t know what 
to do with her, sometimes, Pamela. You know 
I am used to waiting on myself, and she is so 
serious and dignified that I feel half ashamed 
to let her do things for me. Two or three 
gentlemen, who knew Lady Throckmorton, 
came into our box, and were introduced to 
me. One of them (I think Lady Throckmorton 
said he was an attache ) called on us this morn- 
ing, and brought some lovely flowers. I must 
not forget to tell you about my beautiful 


44$ 


“The or 


morning robes. One of them is a white merino, 
trimmed with black velvet, and I am sure we 
should think it pretty enough for a party dress 
at home. I am glad you liked your little 
present, my darling Pam. Give my dearest 
love to Joanna and Elin, and tell them I am 
saving my pocket money to buy them some 
real Parisian dresses with. Love and kisses 
to mamma and the boys from 

“Your Theo.” 

She did not know, this affectionate, hand- 
some Theo, that when she wrote this innocent, 
schoolgirl letter, she might have made it a 
record of triumphs innumerable, though uncon- 
scious. She had never dreamed for a moment 
that it was the face at Lady Throckmorton’s 
side that had caused such a sudden accession 
to the list of the faithful. But this was the 
case, nevertheless, and Lady Throckmorton 
was by no meansunconscious of it. Of course, 
it was quite natural that people who had for- 
gotten her in London should remember her in 
Paris ; but it was even more natural that per- 
sons who did not care for her at all, should be 
filled with admiration for Theo in rose-colored 


“Tkeor 


449 


satin. And so it was. Such a change came 
over the girl’s life all at once, that, as it revealed 
itself to her, she was tempted to rub her bright 
eyes in her doubt as to the reality of it. 

Two weeks after she reached Paris she awoke 
and found herself famous ; she, Theodora North, 
to whom, as yet, Downport, and shabbiness, 
and bread-and-butter cutting, were the only 
things that appeared real enough not to vanish 
at a touch. People of whom she had read six 
months ago, regarding their very existence as 
almost mythical, flattered, applauded, followed 
her. They talked of her, they praised her, 
they made high-flown speeches to her, at 
which she blushed, and glowed, and opened 
her lovely eyes. She was glad they liked 
her, grateful for their attentions, half-con- 
fused under them ; but it was some time 
before she understood the full meaning of 
their homage. In rose-colored satin and dia- 
monds she dazzled them ; but in simple white 
muslin, with a black-velvet ribbon about her 
perfect throat, and a great white rose in her 
dark hair, she was a glowing young goddess, 
of whom they raved extravagantly, and who 
might have made herself a fashion, if she had 
8 


450 


“Theo.” 


been born a few years earlier, and been born 
in Paris. 

Lady Throckmorton was actually proud of 
her, and committed extravagances she might 
have repented of if the girl had not been so 
affectionately grateful and tractable. Then, as 
might be expected, there arose out of the train 
the indefatigable adorer, who is the fate of 
every pretty or popular girl. But in this case 
he was by no means unpleasant. He was 
famous, witty, and fortunate. He was no less 
a personage than the attache , of whom she had 
written to Pamela, and his name was Victor 
Maurien. He had been before all the rest, and 
so had gained some slight footing, which he 
was certainly not the man to relinquish. He 
had gained ground with Lady Throckmorton 
too, and in Denis Oglethorpe’s absence, had 
begun almost to fall his place. He was grace- 
ful, faithful in her ladyship’s service; he talked 
politics with her when she was gravely in- 
clined, and told her the news when she was in 
a good humor; he was indefatigable and digni- 
fied at once, which is a rare combination ; and 
he thought his efforts well rewarded by a seat 
at Theo’s side in their box in the theater, or by 


“The or 


45i 


the privilege of handing her to her carriage, 
and gaining a few farewell words as he bade 
her good night. He was not like the rest either. 
It was not entirely her beauty which had en- 
chanted him, though, like all Frenchmen, he 
was a passionate worshiper of the beautiful. 
The sweet soul in her eyes had touched his 
heart. Her ignorance had done more to 
strengthen it than anything she could have 
done. There was not a spark of coquetry in 
her whole nature. She listened to his poetic 
speeches, wondering but believing — wondering 
how they could be true of her, yet trusting 
him and all the world too seriously to accuse 
him of anything but partiality. 

To the last day of his life Victor Maurien 
will not forget one quiet evening, when he went 
to the hotel and found Theodora North by 
herself, in their private parlor, reading an 
English letter by the blaze of a candelabra. 
It had arrived that very day from Downport, 
and something in it had touched her, for when 
she rose to greet him, her gypsy eyes were 
mistily soft. 

They began to draw near to each other that 
night. Unconsciously she drifted into confid- 


452 


“ Theor 


ing to him the yearnings toward the home 
whose shadows and sharpnesses absence had 
softened. It was singular how much pleasanter 
everything seemed, now she looked back upon 
it in the past. Downport was not an un- 
pleasant place after all. She could remem- 
ber times when the sun shone upon the dingy 
little town and the wide spread of beach, and 
made it almost pretty. 

“ I am afraid I did not love them all enough/' 
she said. “ Lady Throckmorton does not in- 
tend that I shall go there to remain again ; 
but if I were to go, I feel as if I could help 
them more — Pamela, you know, and mamma. 
I want to send Joanna and Elin something, to 
show them that I don’t forget them at all. I 
think I should like to send them some pretty 
dresses. Joanna is fair, and she always wanted 
a pale blue silk. Do you think a pale blue silk 
would be very expensive, M. Maurien ? ” 

She started, and colored a little the next mo- 
ment, recognizing the oddity of her speech, 
and her little laugh was very sweet to hear. 

“ I forgot,” she said. “ How should you 
know, to be sure. Political men don't care 
about pale blue silk, do they?” And she 


“ The or 


453 


laughed again, such a fresh, enjoyable little 
laugh, that he was ready to fall down and wor- 
ship her in his impulsive French fashion. Until 
Lady Throckmorton came, she amused him 
with talking of England and the English peo- 
ple. He could have listened to her forever. 
She told him about Downport and its small 
lions, unconsciously showing him more of her 
past life than she fancied. Then, of course, 
she at last came to Broome Street, and Miss 
Elizabeth, and Miss Priscilla, and — Mr. Denis 
Oglethorpe. 

“ He is very talented, indeed,” she said. 
“ He has written, oh! a great deal. He once 
wrote a book of poems. I have the volume in 
one of my trunks.” 

He looked at her quietly but keenly when 
she said this, and he did not need more than 
a second glance to understand more than she 
understood herself. He read where Mr. Denis 
Oglethorpe stood, by the sudden inner light 
in her eyes, and the fluctuation of rich color 
in her bright glowing face. He was struck 
with a secret pang in a second. There would 
be so frail a thread of hope for the man who 
was only second with a girl like this one. 


454 


“The or 


u I know the gentleman you speak of,” he 
said aloud. “ We all know him. He is a popu- 
lar man. I saw him only a few weeks ago.” 
Her eyes flashed up to his — the whole of her 
face flashed with electric light. 

“ Did you ? ” she said. “ Where was he ? I 

didn’t know ” and there she stopped. 

u He was here/’ was the answer. “ In Paris 
— in this very hotel, the day before you came 
here. He had overworked himself, I think. 
He was looking paler than usual, and somewhat 
worn out. It was fatigue, I suppose.” 

Her eyes fell, and the light died away. She 
was thinking to herself that he might have 
waited twenty-four hours longer — only a day — 
such a short time. Just at that moment she 
felt passionately that. she could not bear to let 
him go back to England and Priscilla Gower 
without a farewell word. 

In all the whirl of excitement that filled her 
life, through all the days that were full of it, 
and the nights that were fairly dazzling to her 
unaccustomed eyes, she never forgot Denis 
Oglethorpe. She remembered him always in 
the midst of all, and now her remembrance was 
of a different kind ; there was more pain in it, 


“The or 


455 


more unrest, more longing and strength. She 
had ripened wonderfully since that last night 
in Broome Street. 

Among the circle of Lady Throckmorton’s 
friends, and even beyond its pale, she was a 
goddess this winter. Her freshness of beauty 
carried all before it, and this her first season 
was a continuation of girlish triumphs. The 
chief characteristic of her loveliness was that 
it inspired people with a sort of enthusiasm. 
When she entered a room a low murmur of 
pleasure followed her. There was not a man 
who had exchanged a word with her who would 
not have been ready to perform absurdities as 
well as impossibilities for her sweet young 
sake. 

“ How kind people are to me,” she would say 
to Lady Throckmorton. “ I can hardly believe 
it sometimes. Oh, how Joanna and Elin would 
like Paris ! ” 

They had been two months in Paris, and in 
the meantime had heard nothing from Denis 
Oglethorpe. He had not written to Lady 
Throckmorton since the letter dated from 
Vienna, so they supposed he had lost sight of 
them and thought writing useless. There 


45 6 


“Theo.” 


were times when Theo tried to make up her 
mind that she had seen him for the last time 
before his marriage, but there were times again 
when, on going out, her last glance at her mir- 
ror had a thrill of expectation in it that was al- 
most a pang. 

She was sitting in their box in the theater 
one night, half listening to Maurien, half to 
the singers, and wondering dreamily what was 
going on in Broome Street at the moment, 
when she suddenly became conscious of a 
slight stir among the people in the seats on 
the other side of the house. She turned her 
face quickly, as if she had been magnetized. 
Making his way toward their box was a man 
whom at first she saw mistily, in a moment 
more quite clearly. Her heart began to beat 
faster than it had ever beaten in her young 
life, her hand closed upon her bouquet-holder 
with a nervous strength ; she turned her face 
to the stage in the excited, happy, and yet 
fearing tremor that took possession of her in 
a second. By some caprice or chance they 
had come to see Faust again, and the Margue- 
rite who had been their attraction, was at this 
very moment standing upon the stage, repeat- 


“The or 457 

softly her simple, pathetic little love- 


ing 
spell, 

“ Er liebt mich, cr liebt mich nicJit 

Theo found herself saying it after Margue- 
rite to the beating of her heart. “ Er liebt 

mich , er liebt mich nicht. Er liebt mich , ” 

and there she stopped, breathlessly, for the 
box door opened, and Denis Oglethorpe en- 
tered. 

She had altered so much since they had last 
met that she scarcely dared to look at him, 
even after the confusion of greetings and for- 
malities was over, and he had answered Lady 
Throckmorton’s questions, and explained to 
her the cause of his protracted wandering — for 
though she did not meet his eyes, she knew 
that he was altered, too. He looked worn and 
fatigued, she thought, and there was a new un- 
rest in his expression. 

It was fully a quarter of an hour before he 
left Lady Throckmorton and came to her side; 
but when he did so, something in his face or 
air, perhaps, made Victor Maurien give way to 
his greater need in an impulse of generosity. 

There was a moment’s silence between them 
after he sat down, during which, in her excited 


458 


U 


Theor 


shyness, Theo only looked at Marguerite with 
a fluttering of rich, warm color on her cheeks. 
It was he who ended the pause himself. 

“Are you glad to see me, Theodora ? ” he 
said, in a low, unsteady voice. 

'‘Yes,’' she answered, tremulously. “I am 
glad.” 

“ Thank you,” he returned. “ And yet it 
was chance that brought me here. I was not 
even sure you were in Paris until I saw you 
from the other side of the house a few mo- 
ments ago. I wonder, my dear Theodora,” 
slipping into the old careless, whimsical man- 
ner, “ I wonder if I am doomed to be a ras- 
cal ? ” 

It might be that her excitement made her 
nervous ; at any rate there was a choking 
throb in her throat, as she answered him. 

“If you please,” she whispered, “ don't.” 

His face softened, as if he was sorry for her 
girlish distress. He was struck with a fancy 
that if he were cruel enough to persist, he 
could make her cry. And then the relapse into 
the old manner had only been a relapse after 
all, and had even puzzled himself a little. So 
he was quiet for a while. 


“ The or 


459 


“ And so it is Faust again,” he said, break- 
ing the silence. “ Do you remember what you 
said to me the first time you saw Faust , Theo- 
dora — the night the rose-colored satin came 
home ? Do you remember telling me that you 
could die for love’s sake? I wonder if you 
have changed your mind, among all the fine 
people you have seen, and all the fine speeches 
you have heard. I met one of Lady Throck- 
morton’s acquaintances in Bordeaux, a few 
days ago, and he told me a wonderful story of 
a young lady who was then turning the wise 
heads of half the political Parisians — a sort of 
enchanted princess, with a train of adorers 
ready to kiss the hem of her garment.” 

He was endeavoring to be natural, and was 
failing wretchedly. His voice was actually 
sad, and she had never heard it sad in all their 
intercourse before. She had never thought it 
could be sad, and the sound was something 
like a revelation of the man. It made her 
afraid of herself — afraid for herself. And yet 
above all this arose a thrill of happiness which 
was almost wild. He was near her again ! he 
had not gone away, he would not go away yet. 
Yet! there was a girl’s foolish, loving comfort 


460 


“ The or 


in the word ! It seemed so impossible that 
she could lose him forever, that for the brief 
moment she forgot Priscilla Gower and justice 
altogether. In three months the whole world 
had altered its face to her vision. She had al- 
tered herself ; her life had altered she knew, 
but she did not know that she had been hap- 
pier in her ignorance of her own heart than 
she could be now in her knowledge of it. 

Her little court were not very successful to- 
night. Denis Oglethorpe kept his place at her 
side with a persistence which baffled the bold- 
est of her admirers, and she was too happy to 
remember the rest of the world. It was not 
very polite, perhaps, and certainly it was not 
very wise to forget everything but that she 
herself was not forgotten ; but she forgot 
everything else — this pretty Theo, this hand- 
some and impolitic Theo. She did not care 
for her court, though she was sweet-tempered- 
ly grateful to her courtiers for their homage. 
She did care for Denis Oglethorpe. Ah, poor 
Priscilla! He went home with them to their 
hotel. He stayed, too, to eat of the petite sou- 
per Lady Throckmorton had ordered. Her 
ladyship had a great deal to say to him, and 


“ Theor 


46 1 


a great number of questions to ask, so he sat 
with them for an hour or so accounting for 
himself and replying to numberless queries, all 
the time very conscious of Theo, who sat by 
the fire in a mist of white drapery and soft, 
thick, white wraps, the light from the wax tapers 
flickering in Pamela’s twinkling sapphires, and 
burning in the great crimson-hearted rose fas- 
tened in the puffs of her hair. 

But Lady Throckmorton remembered at last 
that she had to give some orders to her maid, 
and so for a moment they were left together. 

Then he went to the white figure at the fire 
and stood before it, losing something of both 
color and calmness. He was going to be 
guilty of a weakness, and, knowing it, could not 
control himself. He was not so great a hero 
as she had fancied him, after all. But it would 
have been very heroic to have withstood a 
temptation so strong and so near. 

“ Theo,” he said, “the man who ran away 
from the danger he dared not face is a greater 
coward than he fancied. The chances have 
been against him, too. I suppose to-night he 
must turn his back to it again, but ” 

She stopped him all at once with a little 


462 


“ Theor 


cry. She had been so happy an hour ago, 
that she could not fail to be weak now. Her 
face dropped upon the hands on her lap, and 
was hidden there. The crimson-hearted rose 
slipped from her hair and fell to her feet. 

“No, no! ” she cried. “Don’t go. It is 
only for a little while; don’t go yet! ” 


“ Theo." 


463 


CHAPTER VII. 

AND GOOD-BYE. 

He did not go away. He could not yet. 
He stayed in Paris, day after day, even week 
after week, lingering through a man’s very hu- 
man weakness. He could no longer resist the 
knowledge of the fact that he had lost the best 
part of the battle ; he had lost it in being com- 
pelled to acknowledge the presence of danger 
by flight ; he had lost it completely after this by 
being forced to admit to himself that there 
was not much more to lose, that in spite of his 
determination, Theodora North had filled his 
whole life and nature as Priscilla Gower had 
never filled it, and could never fill it, were she 
his wife for a thousand years. He had made a 
mistake, and discovered having made it too 
late — that was all; but he blamed himself for 
having made it ; blamed himself for being 
blind ; blamed himself more than all for hav- 
ing discovered his blindness and his blunder. 
Thinking thus, he resolved to go away. Yes, 
he would go away! He would marry Priscilla 


464 


“ Theo r 


at once, and have it over. He would put an 
impassable barrier between himself and Theo. 

But, though he reproached himself, and an- 
athematized himself, and resolved to go away, 
he did not leave Paris. He stayed in the face 
of his remorseful wretchedness. It was a terri- 
ble moral condition to be in, but he absolutely 
gave up, for the time, to the force of circum- 
stances, and floated recklessly with the current. 

If he had loved Theodora North when he 
left her for Priscilla’s sake, he loved her ten 
thousand fold, when he forebore to leave her 
for her own. He loved her passionately, 
blindly, jealously. He envied every man who 
won a smile from her, even while his weakness 
angered him. She had changed greatly during 
their brief separation, but the change grew 
deeper after they had once again encountered 
each other. She was more conscious of herself, 
more fearful, less innocently frank. She did 
not reveal herself to him as she had once done. 
There is a stage of love in which frankness is 
at once unnatural and impossible, and she had 
reached this stage. Even her letters to Pris- 
cilla were not frank after his reappearance. 

Since the night of their interview after their 


“ Theo 


465 


return from the theater, he had not referred 
openly to his reasons for remaining. He had 
held himself to the letter of his bond so far, at 
least, though he was often sorely tempted. He 
visited Lady Throckmorton and Theo as he 
had visited them in London, and was their at- 
tendant cavalier upon most occasions, but be- 
yond that he rarely transgressed. It was by 
no means a pleasant position for a man in love 
to occupy. The whole world was between him 
and his love it seemed. The most infatuated 
of Theodora North’s adorers did not fear him, 
handsome and popular as he was, dangerous 
rival as he might have appeared. Lady 
Throckmorton’s world knew the history of 
their favorite, having learned it as society in- 
variably learns such things. Most of them 
knew that his fate had been decided for years ; 
all of them knew that his stay in Paris could 
not be a long one. A man whose marriage is 
to be celebrated in June, has not many months 
to lose between February and May. 

But this did not add to the comfort of Denis 
Oglethorpe. The rest of Theo’s admirers had 
a right to speak — he must be silent. The 
shallowest of them might ask a hearing — he 
9 


4 66 


“ Theor 


dare not for his dishonored honor’s sake. So, 
even while nearest to her he stood afar off, as 
it were, a witness to the innocent triumph of 
a girlish popularity that galled him intole- 
rably. He puzzled her often in these days, and 
out of her bewilderment grew a vague unhap- 
piness. 

And yet, in spite of this, her life grew peril- 
ously sweet at times. Only a few months ago 
she had dreamed of such bliss as Jane Eyre’s 
and Zulieka’s, wonderingly ; but there were 
brief moments now and then when she be- 
lieved in it faithfully. She was very unselfish 
in her girlish passion. She thought of nothing 
but the wondrous happiness love could bring 
to her. She would have given up all her new 
luxuries and triumphs for Denis Oglethorpe’s 
sake. She would have gone back to Down- 
port with him, to the old life; to the mend- 
ing, and bread-and-butter cutting, and shabby 
dresses ; she would have taken it all up again 
cheerfully, without thinking for one moment 
that she had made a sacrifice. Downport 
would have been a paradise with him. She 
was wonderfully devoid of calculation or 
worldly wisdom, if she had only been conscious 


“The or 


467 


of it. An absurdly loving, simple, impolitic 
young person was this Theodora of ours. 

Among the many of the girl’s admirers 
whom Denis Oglethorpe envied jealously, per- 
haps the one most jealously envied was Victor 
Maurien. A jealous man might have feared 
him with reason under any circumstances, and 
Denis chafed at his good fortune miserably. 
The man who had the honorable right to suc- 
cess could not fail to torture him. 

“ It would be an excellent match for Theo,” 
was Lady Throckmorton’s complacent com- 
ment on the subject of the attache's visit, and 
the comment was made to Denis himself. 
“ M. Maurien is the very man to take good 
care of her; and, besides that, he is, of course, 
desirable. Girls like Theo ought to marry 
young. Marriage is their forte ; they are too 
dependent to be left to themselves. Theo is 
not like Pamela, or your Priscilla Gower, for in- 
stance ; queenly as Theo looks, she is the veriest 
strengthless baby on earth. It is a source of 
wonder to me where she got the regal air.” 

But, perhaps, Lady Throckmorton did not 
understand her lovely young relative fully. 
She did not take into consideration a certain 


468 


“Theo.” 


mental ripening process which had gone on 
slowly, but surely, during the last few months. 
The time came when Theodora North began 
to comprehend her powers, and feel the change 
in herself sadly. Then it was that she ceased 
to be frank with Denis Oglethorpe, and began 
to feel a not fully defined humiliation and re- 
morse. 

Coming in unexpectedly once, Denis found 
her sitting all alone, with open book in her lap, 
and eyes brooding over the fire. He knew the 
volume well enough at sight ; it was the half- 
forgotten, long-condemned collection of his 
youthful poems ; and when she saw him, she 
shut it up, and laid her folded hands upon it, 
as if she did not wish him to recognize it. 

He was in one of his most unhappy moods, 
for some reason or other, and so unreasonable 
was his frame of mind, that the movement, 
simple as it was, galled him bitterly. 

“Will you tell me why you did that?” he 
asked, abruptly. 

Her eyes fell upon the carpet at her feet, but 
she sat with her hands still clasped upon the 
half-concealed book, without answering him. 

“You would not have done it three months 


“ The or 


469 


ago/’ he said, almost wrathfully, “ and the 
thing is not more worthless now than it was 
then, though it was worthless enough. Give it 
to me, and let me fling it into the fire.” 

She looked up at him, all at once, and her 
eyes were full to the brim. Lady Throckmor- 
ton was right in one respect. She was strength- 
less enough sometimes. She was worse than 
strengthless against Denis Oglethorpe. 

“ Don’t be angry with me,” she said, almost 
humbly. “ I don’t think you could be angry 
with me if you knew how unhappy I am to- 
day.” And the tears that had brimmed up- 
ward fell upon the folded hands themselves. 

“ Why to-day? ” he asked, softening with far 
more reason than he had been galled. “ What 
has to-day brought, Theodora?” 

She answered him with a soft little gasp of a 
remorseful sob. “ It has brought M. Maurien,” 
she confessed. 

“ And sent him away again ? ” he added, in a 
low, unsteady voice. 

She nodded ; her simple, pathetic sorrowful- 
ness showing itself even in the poor little ges- 
ture. 

“ He has been very fond of me for a long 


47 ° 


“The or 


time,” she said, tremulously. “ He says that 
he loves me. He came to ask me to be his 
wife. I am very sorry for him.” 

“Why? ” he asked again, unsteadily. 

“ I was obliged to make him unhappy,” she 
answered. “ I do not love him.” 

“Why?” he repeated yet again; but his 
voice had sunk into a whisper. 

“ Because,” she said, trembling all over now 
— “because I cannot.” 

He could not utter another word. There 
was such danger for him, and his periled honor, 
in her simple tremor and sadness, that he was 
forced to be silent. 

It was not safe to follow M. Maurien at least. 
But, as might be anticipated, their conversa- 
tion flagged in no slight degree. The hearts 
of both were so full of one subject that it 
would have been hard to force them to an- 
other. Theo, upon her low suit cine, sat mute, 
with drooped eyes, becoming more silent every 
moment. Oglethorpe, in regarding her beau- 
tiful downcast face, forgot himself also. It 
was almost half an hour before he remembered 
he had not made the visit without an object. 
He had something to say to her — something 


“ The or 


47i 


he had once said to her before. He was go- 
ing away again, and had come to tell her so. 
But he recollected himself at last. 

“ I must not forget that I had a purpose in 
coming here to-night.” he said. 

“ A purpose ? ” she repeated, after him. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I found last night, on 
returning to my hotel, that there was a letter 
awaiting me from London — from my employers 
in fact. I must leave Paris to-morrow morning.” 
“And will you not come back again,” she 
added, breathlessly almost. The news was so 
sudden that it made her breathless. This was 
the last time — the very last ! 

They might never see each other again in 
this world, and if they did ever chance to 
meet, Priscilla Gower would be his wife. And 
yet he was standing there now, only a few feet 
from her, so near that her outstretched hand 
would touch him. The full depth of misery in 
the thought flashed upon her all at once, and 
drove the blood back to her heart. 

“Why?” she gasped out unconsciously, 
through the very strength of her pangs. “ You 
are going away forever.” 

She scarcely knew that she had uttered the 


“ The or 


47 * 

words until she saw how deathly pale he grew. 
The beads of moisture started out upon his 
forehead, and his nervous hand went up to 
brush them away. 

“ Not forever, I trust,” he said, huskily. 
“Only until — until ” 

“ Until July,” she ended for him ; “ until you 
are married to Miss Priscilla Gower.” 

She held up one little, trembling, dusky 
hand and actually began to tell the intervening 
months off her fingers. She was trying so hard 
to calm herself that she did not think what she 
was doing. She only knew she must do or say 
something. 

“How many months will it be?” she said. 
“ It is February now ; March, April, May, 
June, July. Five months — not quite five, per- 
haps. We may not be here, then. Lady 
Throckmorton intends to visit the spas during 
the summer.” 

From the depths of her heart she was pray- 
ing that some chance might take them away 
from Paris before he returned. It would be 
his bridal tour — Priscilla’s bridal tour. Ah, if 
some wildly happy dream had only chanced to 
make it her bridal tour, and she could have 


“ The or 


473 


gone with him as Priscilla would, from place to 
place ; near him all the time, loving and trust- 
ing him always, depending on him, obedient to 
his lightest wishes. Priscilla was far too self- 
restrained to ever be as foolishly, thrill ing- 
ly tender and fond and happy as she, Theo- 
dora North, would have been. She could have 
given a little sob of despair and pain as she 
thought of it. 

As it was, the hopeless, foolish tears rose up 
to her large eyes, and made them liquid and 
soft ; and when they rose, Denis Oglethorpe 
saw them. Such beautiful eyes as they were ; 
such ignorant, believing, fawn-like eyes. The 
eyes alone would have unmanned him — under 
the tears he broke down utterly, and so was 
left without a shadow of control. 

He crossed the hearth with a stride and 
stood close to her, his whole face ablaze with 
the fierceness of his remorseful self-reproach 
and the power of his love. 

“ Listen to me, Theo,” he said. “ Let me 
confess to you ; let me tell you the truth for 
once. I am a coward and a villain. I was a 
villain to ask a woman I did not truly love to 
be my wife. I am a coward to shrink from the 


474 


“Theor 


result of my vanity and madness. She is bet- 
ter than I am — this woman who has promised 
herself to me; she is stronger, truer, purer; 
she has loved me, she has been faithful to me ; 
and God knows I honor and revere her. I am 
not worthy to kiss the ground her feet have 
trodden upon. I was vain fool enough to 
think I could make her happy by giving to her 
all she did not ask for — my life, my work, my 
strength — not remembering that Heaven had 
given her the sacred right to more. She has 
held to our bond for years, and now see how it 
has ended ! I stand here before you to-night, 
loving you, adoring you, worshiping you, and 
knowing myself a dishonored man, a weak 
coward, whose truth is lost forever. 

“ I do not ask you for a word. I do not say 
a word further. I will not perjure myself more 
deeply. I only say this as a farewell confes- 
sion. It will be farewell ; we shall never see 
each other again on earth, perhaps ; and if we 
do, an impassable gulf will lie between us. I 
shall go back to England and hasten the mar- 
riage if I can; and then, if a whole life’s strenu- 
ous exertions and constant care and tender- 
ness will wipe out the dishonor my weakness 


“The a." 


475 


has betrayed me into, it shall be wiped out. I 
do not say one word of love to you, because I 
dare not. I only say, forgive me, forget me, 
and good-by.” 

She had listened to him with a terrified light 
growing in her eyes ; but when he finished, she 
rose from her seat, shivering from head to foot. 

“ Good-bye,” she said, and let him take her 
cold, lithe, trembling hands. But the moment 
he touched them, his suppressed excitement 
and her own half-comprehended pain seemed 
to frighten her, and she began to try to draw 
them from his grasp. 

“ Go away, please,” she said, with a wild 
little sob. “ I can’t bear it. I don’t want to 
be wicked, and perhaps I have been wicked, 
too. Miss Gower is better than I am — more 
worth loving. Oh, try to love her, and — and 
— only go away now, and let me be alone.” 

She ended in an actual little moan. She 
was shivering and sobbing, hard as she tried 
to govern herself. And yet, though this man 
loved her, and would have given half his life to 
snatch her to his arms and rain kisses of com- 
fort upon her, he let the cold little hand drop, 
and in a moment more had left her. 


4 7 6 


“ Theo!' 


CHAPTER VIII. 

YOU ARE MAKING A MISTAKE. 

He had been gone three days, and, in their 
lapse, Theo felt as if three lustrums had passed. 
Their parting had been so unexpected, that 
she could not get used to it, or believe it 
was anything else but a painful dream. After 
all, it seemed that Fortune was crueler than 
she had imagined possible. He was gone, and 
to Priscilla Gower; and she had never been 
able to believe that some alteration, of which 
she had no very definite conception, would oc- 
cur, and end her innocent little ghost of a love- 
story, as all love-stories should be ended. It 
had never been more than the ghost of a story. 
Until that last night he had never uttered a 
word of love to her ; he had never even made 
the fine speeches to her which she might have 
expected, and, doubtless, would have expected, 
if she had been anybody else but Theodora 
North. She had not expected them, though, 
and, consequently, was not disappointed when 
she did not receive them. But she found her- 


“ Theor 


4 77 


self feeling terribly lonely after Denis Ogle- 
thorpe left Paris. The first day she felt more 
stunned than anything else. The second her 
sensibilities began to revive keenly, and she 
was full of sad, desperate wonder concerning 
him — concerning how he would feel when he 
stood face to face with Priscilla Gower; how 
he would look, what he would say to her. The 
third day was only the second intensified, and 
filled with a something that was almost like a 
terror now and then. 

It was upon this third day that Lady 
Throckmorton was unexpectedly called away. 
A long-lost friend of her young days had sud- 
denly made her appearance at Rouen, and 
having, by chance, heard of her ladyship’s 
presence in Paris, had written to her a letter of 
invitation, which the ties of their girlhood ren- 
dered almost a command. So to Rouen her 
ladyship went, for once leaving Theo behind. 
Madam St. Etienne was an invalid, and the 
visit could not be a very interesting one to a 
young girl. This was one reason why she was 
left — the other was the more important one 
that she did not wish to go, and made her 
wishes known. She was not sorry for the 


47 * 


“ Theor 


chance of being left to herself for a few days 
— it would be only a few days at most. 

“ Besides/’ said Lady Throckmorton, looking 
at her a trifle curiously, “ you do not look well 
yourself. Theo, you look feverish, or nervous, 
or something of the kind. How was it I 
did not notice it before? You must have 
caught cold. Yes, I believe I must leave you 
here.” 

Consequently, Theo was left. She was quiet 
enough, too, when her ladyship had taken her 
departure. It was generally supposed that 
Miss North had accompanied her chaperon, 
and so she had very few callers. She spent the 
greater part of her time in the apartment in 
which Denis Oglethorpe had bidden her fare- 
well, and, as may be easily imagined, it did not 
add to her lightness of spirit to sit in her old 
seat and ponder over the past in the silence of 
the deserted room. She arose from her otto- 
man one night, and walked to one of the great 
mirrors that extended from floor to ceiling. 
She saw herself in it as she advanced — a regal 
young figure, a face that was half child’s, half 
woman’s, and yet wholly perfect in its fresh 
young life and beauty. Seeing this reflection, 


“ Theo.” 


479 


she stopped and looked at it, in a swift recog- 
nition of a new thought. 

“ Oh, Pam ! ” she cried out, piteously. “ Oh, 
my poor, darling, faded Pam. You were pret- 
ty once, too, very, — dear, pretty, and young. 
And you were happier than I can be, for Ar- 
thur only died. Nobody came between your 
love and you — nobody ever could. Pie died, 
but he was yours, Pam, and you were his.” 

She cried piteously and passionately when 
she went back to her seat, rested her arm upon 
a lounging-chair near her, and hid her face 
upon it, crying as only a girl can, with an inno- 
cent grief that had a pathos of its own. She 
was so lovely and remorseful. It seemed to 
her that some fault must have been hers, and 
she blamed herself that even now she could 
not wish that she had never met the man 
whose love for her was a dishonor to himself. 
Where was he now? He had told Lady 
Throckmorton that business would call him to 
several smaller towns on his way, so he might 
not be very far from Paris yet. She was think- 
ing of this when at last she fell asleep sitting 
by the fire, still resting her hand upon the 
chair by her side. It was by no means unnat- 


4&o 


“ The or 


ural, though by no means poetic, that her girl’s 
pain should end so. 

But when the time-piece on the mantel chimed 
twelve with its silver tongue, she found herself 
suddenly and unaccountably wide awake. She 
sat up and looked about her. It was not the 
clock’s chime that had awakened her she 
thought. It must have been something more, 
she was so very wide awake indeed, and her 
senses were so clear. One minute later she 
found out what it was. There was some slight 
confusion down stairs ; a door was opened and 
closed, and she heard the sound of voices in 
the entrance-hall. She turned her head, and 
listening attentively, discovered that some one 
was coming up to the room in which she sat. 
The door opened, and upon the threshold 
stood a servant, bearing in his hand a salver, 
and upon the salver a queer, official-looking 
document, such as she did not remember ever 
having seen before. 

“A telegram,” he said, rapidly, in French, 
“ for milady. They had thought it better to 
acquaint Mad’moiselle.” 

She took it from him, and opened it slowly 
and mechanically. She read it mechanically 


“ Theo r 


481 

also — read it twice before she comprehended 
its full meaning, so great was the shock it gave 
her. Then she started from her seat with a cry 
that made the servant start also. 

“ Send Splaighton to me,” she said, “this 
minute, without a moment’s delay.” 

For the telegram she had just read told her 
that in a wayside inn, at St. Ouentin, Denis 
Oglethorpe lay dying, or so near it that the 
medical man had thought it his duty to send 
for the only friend who was on the right side 
of Calais, and that friend, whose name he had 
discovered by chance, was Lady Throckmorton. 

It was, of course, a terribly unwise thing that 
Theodora North decided upon doing an hour 
later. Only such a girl as she was, or as her 
life had necessarily made her, would have hit 
upon a plan so loving, so wild and indiscreet. 
But it did not occur to her, even for a second, 
that there was any other thing to do. She 
must go to him herself in Lady Throckmor- 
ton’s stead ; she must take Splaighton with 
her, and go try to take care of him until Lady 
Throckmorton came, or could send for Priscilla 
Gower and Miss Elizabeth. 

“M’amselle,” began the stricken Splaighton, 
10 


482 


“The or 


when, as she stood before the erect young fig- 
ure and desperate young face, this desperate 
plan was hurriedly revealed to her. “ Ma’m- 

selle, you forget the imprudence ” 

But Theo stopped her, quite ignorant of the 
fact, that by doing so, she forfeited her repu- 
tation in Splaighton’s eyes forever. 

“ He is going to die ! ” she said, with a wild 
little sob in her voice. “ And he is all alone 
— and — and he was to have been married, 
Splaighton, in July — only a few months from 
now. Oh, poor Priscilla Gower ! Oh, poor 
girl! We must save him. I must go now and 
try to save him for her. Oh, if I could just 
have Pamela with me.” 

The woman saw r at once that remonstrance 
would be worse than useless. It was slowly 
revealed to her that this despairing, terrified 
young creature would not understand her re- 
sistance in the slightest degree. She would 
not comprehend what it meant ; so, while 
Splaighton packed up a few necessary articles, 
Theo superintended her, following her from 
place to place, with a longing impatience that 
showed itself in every word and gesture. She 
did not dare to do more, poor child. She had 


“ Theo .” 


483 


never overcome her secret awe of her waiting 

o 

woman. In her inexperienced respect for her, 
she even apologized pathetically and appeal- 
ingly for the liberty she was taking in calling 
upon her. 

“ I am sorry to trouble you,” she said, hum- 
bly, and feeling terribly homesick as she said 
it ; “ but I could not go alone, you know — and 
I must go. There is a lace collar in that little 
box, that you may have, Splaighton. It is a 
pretty collar, and I will give you the satin bow 
that is fastened to it.” 

Scarcely two hours later they were on their 
way to St. Ouentin. It never occurred to 
Theo, in the midst of her fright and unhappi- 
ness, that she was now doing a very unwise 
and dangerous thing. She only thought of one 
thing, that Denis was going to die. She loved 
him too much to think of herself at all, and, 
besides, she did not, poor innocent, know any- 
thing about such things. 

It was a wonderful trial of the little old 
French doctor’s calmness of mind, when, on his 
next visit to his patient, he found himself con- 
fronted by a tall young creature, with a pale, 
desperate face, and lovely tear-fraught eyes, 


484 


“The or 


instead of by the majestic, elderly person, the 
perusal of Lady Throckmorton’s last letter to 
Denis had led him to expect. It was in the 
little inn parlor that he first encountered Theo- 
dora North, when she arrived, and on seeing 
her he gazed over his spectacles, first at her- 
self, and then at the respectable Splaighton, in 
a maze of bewilderment, at seemingly having 
made so strange a blunder. 

“Lady Throckmorton?” he said, at last, in 
English, or in a broken attempt at it. “ Oh ! 
Old — I understand. The sister of monsieur? 
Ah, milady ? ” 

Theo broke in upon him in a passionate im- 
pulse of fear and grief. 

“ No,” she said. “ I am not Lady Throck- 
morton. I am only her niece, Theodora North. 
My aunt was away when your telegram ar- 
rived, and — and I knew some one must come 
— so I came myself. Splaighton and I can 
take care of Mr. Oglethorpe. Oh, monsieur, is 
it true that he is dying ? — will he never get 
well ? How could it happen ! He was so 
strong only a few days since. He must not 
die. It cannot be true that he will die — he has 
so many friends who love him.” 


“TAeo” 


485 


Monsieur, the doctor, softened perceptibly 
under this ; she was so young and innocent- 
looking, this girlish little English mademoiselle. 
Monsieur up-stairs must be a lucky man to 
have won her tender young heart so utterly. 
Strange and equivocal a thing as the pretty 
child (she seemed a child to him) was doing, 
he never for an instant doubted the ignorant 
faith and love that shone in the depths of her 
beautiful agonized eyes. He bowed to her as 
deferentially as to a sultana, when he made his 
answer. 

“ It had been an accident/’ he commenced. 
u The stage had overturned on its way, and 
monsieur being in it, had been thrown out by 
its falling into a gully. His collar-bone had 
been broken, and several of his ribs fractured ; 
but the worst of his injuries had been a gash 
on his head — a sharp stone had done it. Mad- 
emoiselle would understand wherein the dan- 
ger lay. He was unconscious at present.” 

This he told her on their way to the cham- 
ber up-stairs ; but even the gravity of his man- 
ner did not prepare her for the sight the open- 
ing of the door revealed to her. Handsome 
Denis Oglethorpe lay upon the narrow little 


4 86 


“The or 


bed with the face of a dying man, which is far 
worse than that of a dead man. There were 
spots of blood on his pillow and upon his gar- 
ments ; he was bandaged from head to foot, it 
seemed, with ghastly red, wet bandages ; his 
eyes were glazed, and his jaw half dropped. 

A low, wild cry broke from the pale lips of 
the figure in the doorway, and the next instant 
Theodora North had flown to the bedside and 
dropped upon her knees by it, hiding her 
deathly-stricken young face upon her lover’s 
lifeless hand, forgetting Splaighton, forgetting 
the doctor, forgetting even Priscilla Gower, 
forgetting all but that she, in this moment, 
knew that she could not give him up, even 
to the undivided quiet of death. 

“ He will die ! He will die ! ” she cried out. 
u And I never told him. Oh, my love ! love ! 
Oh, my dearest dear ! ” 

The little old doctor drew back half way, 
through a suddenly stronger impulse of sympa- 
thy. He was uneasily conscious of the fact 
that the staid, elderly person at his side was 
startled and outraged simultaneously by this 
passionate burst of grief on the part of her 
young mistress. He had seen so many of 


“ The or 


487 


these unprepossessing English waiting-women 
that he understood the state of her feelings as 
by instinct. He turned to her with all the 
blandness possible under the circumstances, 
and gave her an order which would call for her 
presence down-stairs. 

When she departed, as she did in a state 
bordering on petrifaction, he came forward to 
the bedside. He did not speak, however; 
merely looking down at his patient in a silence 
whose delicacy was worthy of honor, even in 
a shriveled, little, snuff-taking French village 
doctor. The pretty young mademoiselle would 
be calmer before many minutes had elapsed — 
his experience had taught him. And so she 
was. At least, her first shock of terror wore 
away, and she was calm enough to speak to 
him. She lifted her face from the motion- 
less hand, and looked up at him in a wild 
appeal for help, that was more than touch- 
ing. 

“ Don’t say he will die ! ” she prayed. “ Oh, 
monsieur, only save him, and we will bless you 
forever. I will nurse him so well. Only give 
me something to do, and see how faithful I 
shall prove. I shall never forget anything, and 


4 88 


“The or 


I shall never be tired — if — if he can only live, 
monsieur,” the terrified catching of her breath 
making every little pause almost a sob. 

“ My child,” he answered her, with a grave 
touch of something quite like affection in his 
air, “ My child, I shall save him, if he is to 
be saved, and you shall help me.” 

How faithfully she held to the very letter of 
her promises, only this little, shriveled village 
doctor could say. How tender, and watchful, 
and loving she was, in her care of her charge, 
only he could bear witness. She was never 
tired — never forgetful. She held to her place 
in the poor little bedroom, day and night, with 
an intensity of zeal that was actually astonish- 
ing. Priscilla Gower and Pamela North might 
have been more calm — certainly would have 
been more self-possessed, but they could not 
have been more faithful. She obeyed every 
order given to her like a child. She sat by the 
bedside, hour after hour, day and night, watch- 
ing every change of symptom, noting every 
slight alteration of color or pulse. 

The friendship between herself and monsieur, 
the doctor, so strengthened that the confidence 
between them was unlimited. She was only 


“Theor 


489 

disobedient in one thing. She would not leave 
her place either for food or rest. She ate her 
poor little dinners near her patient, and, if the 
truth had been known, scarcely slept at all for 
the first two or three days. 

“ I could not sleep, you know,” she said to 
the doctor, her great pathetic eyes filling with 
tears. “ Please let me stay until Lady Throck- 
morton comes, at least.” 

So she stayed, and watched, and waited, 
quite alone, for nearly a week. But it seemed 
a much longer time to her. The poor, hand- 
some face changed so often in even those few 
days, and her passions of despair and hope 
were so often changed with it. She never 
thought of Priscilla Gower. Her love and fear 
were too strong to allow of her giving a 
thought to anything on earth but Denis Ogle- 
thorpe. Perhaps her only consolation had 
something of guilt in it ; but it was so poor 
and desperate a comfort, this wretched one of 
hearing him speak to and of her in his fever 
and delirium. 

“ My poor, handsome Theo,” he would say. 
“ Why, my beauty, there are tears in your eyes. 
What a scoundrel I am, if I have brought them 


49 ° 


“ The or 


there. What ! the rose-colored satin again, my 
darling ! Don't wear the rose-colored satin, 
Theo. It hurts my eyes. For God’s sake, 
Priscilla, forgive me ! ” 

And yet, even while they added to her ter- 
ror, these poor ravings were some vague com- 
fort, since they told her that he loved her. 
More than once her friend the doctor entered 
the room, and found her kneeling by the bed- 
side, holding the unresponsive hand, with a 
white face and wide, tearless eyes ; and seeing 
her thus, he read clearly that his pretty, inex- 
perienced protegee had more at stake than he 
had even at first fancied. 

It was about six days after Theodora North 
had arrived at St. Ouentin, when, sitting at 
her post one morning, she heard the lumbering 
stage stop before the inn door. She rose 
and went to the window, half mechanically, 
half anxiously. At first it occurred to her 
that Lady Throckmorton had arrived. But 
strangers had evidently alighted. There was 
a bustle of servants below, and one of them 
was carrying a leathern trunk into the house 
immediately under her window. It was a 
leathern trunk, rather shabby than otherwise, 


“ Thcor 


49 1 


and on its side was an old label, which, being 
turned toward her, she could read plainly. She 
read it, and gave a faint start. It bore, in 
dingy black letters, the word “ Downport.” 

She had hardly time to turn round, before 
there was a summons at the door, and without 
waiting to be answered, Splaighton entered, 
looking at once decorous and injured. 

“ There are two ladies in the parlor, made- 
moiselle,” she said (she always called Theo 
mademoiselle in these days), “ two English la- 
dies, who did not give their names. They 
asked for Miss North.” 

Theo looked at the woman, and turned pale. 
She did not know how or why her mother and 
Pamela should come down to this place, but 
she felt sure it was they who were awaiting her ; 
and for the first time since she had received the 
telegram, a shock of something like misgiving 
rushed upon her. Suppose, after all, she had 
not done right. Suppose she had done wrong, 
and they had heard of it, and came to reproach 
her, or worse still (poor child, it seemed worse 
still to her), to take her away — to make her 
leave her love to strangers. She began to 
tremble, and as she went out of the room, she 


“ Theor 


492 

looked back at the face upon the pillow, Vith a 
despairing fear that the look might be her last. 

She hardly knew how she got down the nar- 
row stair-case. She only knew that she went 
slowly. 

Then she was standing upon the mat at the 
parlor-door ; then she had opened the door 
itself, and stood upon the threshold, looking in 
upon two figures just revealed to her in the 
shadow. One figure — yes, it was Pamela’s ; 
the other not her mother’s. No, the figure of 
Priscilla Gower. 

“ Pamela,” she cried out. “ Oh, Pam, don’t 
blame me.” 

She never knew how the sight of her stand- 
ing before them, like a poor little ghost, with 
her great, appealing eyes, touched one of these 
two women to the heart. 

There was something pathetic in her very 
figure — something indescribably so in her half- 
humble, half-fearing voice. 

Pamela rose up from the horse-hair sofa, and 
went to her. 

Each of the three faces was pale enough ; 
but Pamela had the trouble of these two, as 
well as her own anxiousness, in her eyes. 


“ Theor 


493 


“Theo,” she said to her, “ what have you 
done? Don’t you understand what a mad act 
you have been guilty of ? ” 

But her voice was not as sharp as usual, and 
it even softened before she finished speaking. 
She made Tiieo sit down, and gave her a glass 
of water to steady her nervousness. She could 
not be angry even at such indiscretion as this 
— in the face of the tremulous hands and plead- 
ing eyes. 

“ Where was Lady Throckmorton ! ” she 
said. “ What was she doing, to let you come 
alone ? ” 

“ She was away,” put in Theo, faintly. “ And 
the telegram said he was dying, Pam, and — I 
didn’t come alone quite. I brought Splaighton 
with me.” 

“You had no right to come at all,” said 
Pam, trying to speak with asperity, and failing 
miserably. “ Mr. Oglethorpe is nothing to 
you. They should have sent for Miss Gower 
at once.” 

But the fact was the little doctor had searched 
in vain for the exact address of the lady whose 
letters he found in his patient’s portmanteau, 
when examining his papers to find some clue 


494 


“ Theor 


to the whereabouts of his friends, and it was 
by the merest chance that he had discovered 
it in the end from Theo’s own lips, and so had 
secretly written to Broome Street, in his great 
respect and admiration for this pretty young 
nurse, who was at once so youthful and inde- 
scribably innocent. In her trouble and anx- 
ious excitement, Theo had not once thought 
of doing so herself, until during the last two 
days, and now there was no necessity for the 
action. 

“ And Mr. Oglethorpe,” interposed Miss 
Gower. 

“ He is up stairs,” Theo answered. “ The 
doctor thinks that perhaps he may be saved 
by careful nursing. I did what I could,” and 
she stopped with a click in her throat. 

The simple sight of Priscilla Gower, with her 
calm, handsome face, set her so far away from 
him, and she had seemed so near to him during 
the few last days — she felt so poor and weak 
through the contrast. And Pamela was right, 
she was nothing to him — he was nothing to 
her. This was his wife who had come to him 
now, and she — what was she ? 

She led them uo-stairs to the sick-room, si- 


“ The or 


495 


lently, and there left them. It had actually 
never occurred to her to ask herself how it was 
that the two were together. She was thinking 
only about Denis. She went to her own little 
bedroom at the top of the house — such a poor, 
little bare place as it was, as poor and bare as 
only a bedroom in a miserable little French 
road-side inn can be — only the low, white bed 
in it, a chair or two, and a barren toilet-table 
standing near the deep window. This deep, 
square window was the only part of the room 
holding any attraction for Theo. From it she 
could look out along the road, where the lum- 
bering stages made their daily appearance, and 
could see miles of fields behind the hedges, 
and watch the peasant women in their wooden 
sabots journeying on to the market towns. She 
flung herself down on the bare floor, in the re- 
cess formed by the window, and folded her 
arms upon its broad ledge. She looked out 
for a minute at the road, and the fields, and 
the hedges, and then gave vent to a single, 
sudden desperate sob. Nobody knew her pain 
— nobody would ever know it. Perhaps every- 
thing would end, and pass, and die away for- 
ever, and it would be her own pain to the end 


“ Theo.” 


49 6 

of her life. Even Denis himself would not 
know it. He had never asked her to tell him 
that she loved him, and if he died, he would 
die without having heard a word of love from 
her lips. What would they do with her now — 
Priscilla and Pamela? Make her go back to 
Paris, and leave him to them ; and if he got 
well they might never meet again, and, per- 
haps, he would never learn who had watched 
by his bedside, when no one else on earth was 
near to try to save him. 

She dropped her face upon her folded arms, 
sobbing in a great, uncontrollable burst of re- 
bellion against her fate. 

“ No one cares for us, my darling, my angel, 
my love,” she cried. “ They w^ould take me 
from you, if they could ; but they shall not, 
my own. If it was wrong, how can I help it ? 
And, oh ! what does it matter, if all the world 
should be lost to me, if only you could be left ? 
If I could only see your dear face once every 
day, and hear your voice, even if it was ever so 
far away, and you were not speaking to me at 
all.” 

She was so wearied with her watching and 
excitement, that her grief w r ore itself away into 


“ Theor 


497 


silence and exhausted quiet. She did not 
raise her head, but let it rest upon her arms 
as she knelt, and before many minutes had 
passed, her eyes closed with utter weari- 
ness. 

She awoke with a start, half an hour later. 
Some one was standing near her. It had been 
twilight when she fell asleep, and now the room 
was so gray, that she could barely distinguish 
who it was. A soft, thick shawl had been 
dropped over her, evidently by the person in 
question. When Theo’s eyes became accus- 
tomed to the shadows, she recognized the 
erect, slender figure and handsome head. It 
was Priscilla Gower, and Priscilla Gower was 
leaning against the window, and looking down 
at her fixedly. 

“You were cold when I found you,” were 
her first words, “and so I threw my shawl 
around you. You ought not to have gone to 
sleep there.” 

“ I fell asleep before I knew that I was 
tired,” said Theo. “ Thank you, Miss Gower.” 

There was a pause of a moment, before she 
summoned courage to speak again. 

“ I have not had time yet,” she hesitated, at 


49 8 


“The or 


last, “ to ask you how Miss Elizabeth is. I 
hope she is well ? ” 

“ I am sorry to say she is not,” Priscilla re- 
plied. “ If she had been well, she would have 
accompanied me here. She has been very 
weak of late. It was on that account that I 
applied to your sister, when the doctor’s letter 
told me I was needed.” 

“ I have been expecting Lady Throckmorton 
for so long, that I am afraid something has 
gone wrong,” said Theo. 

To this remark Priscilla made no reply. She 
was never prone to be communicative regard- 
ing Lady Throckmorton. But she had come 
here to say something to Theodora North, and 
at last she said it. 

“You have been here — how long?” she 
asked, suddenly. 

“Nearly a week,” said Theo. 

“ Is Mr. Oglethorpe better, or worse, than 
when you saw him first ? ” 

“ I do not know, exactly,” answered the low, 
humble voice. “ Sometimes better — though I 
do not think he is ever much worse.” 

Another pause, and then : 

“You were very brave to come so far alone.” 


“The or 


499 


The beautiful face was uplifted all at once, 
but the next moment it dropped with a sob of 
actual anguish. 

“ Oh, Miss Gower! ” the girl cried. “ Don’t 
blame me ; please don’t blame me. There was 

no one else, and the telegram said he was dy- 

• > > 

mg. 

“ Hush,” said Priscilla Gower, with an inex- 
plicable softness in her tone. “ I don’t blame 
you ; I should have done the same thing in 
your place.” 

“ But you ” began Theo, faintly. 

Priscilla stopped her before she had time to 
finish her sentence ; stopped her with a cold, 
clear, steady voice. 

“ No,” she said. “You are making a mis- 
take.” 

What this brief speech meant, she did not 
explain ; but she evidently had understood 
what Theodora was going to say, and had not 
wished to hear it. 

But brief speech as it was, its brevity held a 
swift pang of new fear for Theo. She could 
not quite comprehend its exact meaning, but 
it struck a fresh dread to her heart. Could it 
be that she knew the truth, and was going to 


5oo 


“The 0." 


punish him ? Could she be cruel enough to 
think of reproaching him at such an hour as 
this, when he lay at death’s door? Some fran- 
tic idea of falling at her stern feet and plead- 
ing for him rushed into her mind. But the 
next moment, glancing up at the erect, mo- 
tionless figure, she became dimly conscious of 
something that quieted her, she scarcely knew 
how. 

The dim room was so quiet, too ; there was 
so deep a stillness upon the whole place, it 
seemed that she gained a touch of courage for 
the instant. Priscilla was not looking at her 
now ; her statuesque face was turned toward 
the wide expanse of landscape, fast dying out, 
as it were, in the twilight grayness. Theo’s 
eyes rested on her for a few minutes in a re- 
morseful pity for, and a mute yearning toward, 
this woman whom she had so bitterly yet so 
unconsciously wronged. She would not wrong 
her more deeply still ; the wrong should end 
just as she had thought it had ended, when 
Denis dropped her hand and left her standing 
alone before the fire that last night in Paris. 
This resolve rose up in her mind with a power 
so overwhelming, that it carried before it all 


“ The or 


501 

the past of rebellion, and pain, and love. She 
would go away before he knew that she had 
been with him at all. She would herself be 
the means of bringing to pass the end she had 
only so short a time ago rebelled against so 
passionately. He should think it was his 
promised wife who had been with him from the 
first. She would make Priscilla promise that 
it should be so. Having resolved this, her new 
courage — courage, though it was so full of des- 
perate, heart-sick pain — helped her to ask a 
question bearing upon her thoughts. She 
touched the motionless figure with her hand. 

“ Did Pamela come here to bring me away ?” 
she asked. 

Priscilla Gower turned, half starting, as 
though from a reverie. 

“ What did you say? ” she said. 

“ Did Pamela come to take me away from 
here?” Theo repeated. 

“ No,” she said. “ Do not be afraid of that.” 

Theo looked out of the window, straight 
over her folded arms. The answer had not 
been given unkindly, but she could not look at 
Priscilla Gower, in saying what she had to say. 

“ I am not afraid,” she said. “ I think it 


502 


“Theor 


would be best ; I must go back to Paris, or to 
— to Downport, before Mr. Oglethorpe knows 
I have been here at all. You can take care of 
him now — and there is no need that he should 
know I ever came to St. Quentin. I dare say 
I was very unwise in coming as I did ; but I 
am afraid I would do the same thing again 
under the same circumstances. If you will be 
so kind as to let him think that — that it was 
you who came ” 

Priscilla Gower interrupted her here, in the 
same manner, and with the same words, as she 
had interrupted her before. 

“ Hush ! ” she said. “You are making a 
mistake, again ” 

She did not finish what she was saying. A 
hurried footstep upon the stairs stopped her ; 
and as both turned toward the door, it was 
opened, and Pamela stood upon the threshold 
and faced them, looking at each in the breath- 
less pause that followed. 

“ There has been a change,” she said. “ A 
change for the worse. I have sent for the 
doctor. You had better come down stairs, at 
once, Theodora, you have been here long 
enough to understand him better than we can.” 


“ Theo . 


503 


And down together they went ; and the first 
thing that met their eyes as they entered the 
sick-room, was Oglethorpe, sitting up in bed, 
with wild eyes, haggard and fever-mad, strug- 
gling with his attendants, who were trying to 
hold him down, and raving aloud in the old 
strain Theo had heard so often. 

“ Why, Theo, my beauty, there are tears in 
your eyes. Good-by! Yes! Forgive me! 
Forget me, and good-by! For God’s sake, 
Priscilla, forgive me ! ” 


504 


“ Theo. 


> > 


CHAPTER IX. 

YOU HAVE DONE NO WRONG TO ME. 

The hardest professional trouble the shriv- 
eled little French doctor had, perhaps, ever 
encountered, was the sight of the white, woe- 
stricken young face, turned up to his when 
Theodora North followed him out of the 
chamber upon the landing that night, and 
caught his arm in both her clinging hands. 

a He will die now, doctor,” she said in’ an 
agonized whisper. “ He will die now ; I saw it 
in your face when you let his hand drop.’’ 

It would have been a hard-hearted individu- 
al who would have told the exact truth in the 
face of these beautiful, agonized eyes — and the 
little doctor was anything but hard of heart. 

He patted the clinging hands quite affec- 
tionately, feeling in secret great apprehension, 
yet hiding his feelings admirably. 

“ My little mademoiselle,” he said (the tall 
young creature at his side was almost regal, 
head and shoulders above him in height), “ My 


“ The or 


5°5 


dear little Mademoiselle Theodora, this will 
not do. If you give way, I shall give way, too. 
You must help me — we must help each other, 
as we have been doing. It is you only who 
can save him — it is you he calls for. You must 
hope with me until some day when he awakes 
to know us, and then I shall show you to him, 
and say, ‘ Here is the beautiful young made- 
moiselle who saved you.' And then we shall 
see, Miss Theodora — then we shall see what a 
charm those words will work.” 

But she did not seem to be comforted, as he 
expected she would be. 

“ No,” she said. “The time will never come 
when you can say that to him. If he is ever 
w r ell enough to know me, I must go away, and 
no one must tell him I have been here.” 

Monsieur, the doctor, looked at her over his 
spectacles, sharply. 

The pale face at once touched and suggested 
to him the outline of a little romance — and he 
had all a Frenchman’s sympathy for romance — 
monsieur, the doctor. It was line grande pas- 
sion , was it, and this tractable, beautiful young 
creature was going to make a sacrifice of all 
her hope of love, upon the altar of stern honor. 


But he made no comment, only patted her 
hand again. 

“Well, well,” he said. “We shall see, ma- 
demoiselle, we shall see. Only let us hope.” 

The days and nights of watching, in com- 
panionship with Priscilla Gower, were a heavy 
trial to Theo. Not that any unusual coldness 
in the handsome face was added to her 
troubles as an extra burden. Both Priscilla 
and Pamela were very mindful of her comfort 
— so very mindful that their undemonstrative 
care for her cut her to the heart, sometimes. 
Yet, somehow, she felt herself as a stranger, 
without the right to watch with them. It was 
so terrible a thing to stand near the woman 
she had innocently injured, and listen with her 
to the impassioned adjurations of the lover 
who had been false, in spite of himself. It 
seemed his mind was always upon the one 
theme, and in his delirium his ravings wan- 
dered from Priscilla to Theo, and from Theo to 
Priscilla, in a misery that was not without its 
pathos. Sometimes it was that last night in 
Paris — and he went over his farewell, word for 
word ; sometimes it was his wedding-day — and 
he was frantically appealing to Priscilla for for- 


“The or 


So 7 

giveness, and remorsefully anathematizing him- 
self. 

They were both together in the room, one 
evening, when he was raving thus, when he 
suddenly paused for an instant, and began to 
count slowly upon his fingers, “ January, Feb- 
ruary, March, April, May, June, July. My 
pretty Theo, what a mistake it was — only seven 
months, and then to have lost you. Good God, 
my darling!” and his voice became a low, ag- 
onized cry. “ Good God, my darling ! and I 
cannot give you up ! ” 

Theo glanced up at Priscilla Gower, mute 
with misery for a moment. The erect, black- 
robed figure stood between herself and the fire, 
motionless, but the fixed face was so white that 
it forced a low cry from her. She could not 
bear it a second longer. She slipped upon her 
knees on the hearth-rug, and caught the hem 
of the black dress in her hands, in a tumult of 
despair and remorse. 

X 

a He does not know w r hat he is saying,” she 
cried, breathlessly. “ Oh, forgive him, forgive 
him ! I will go away now, if you think I 
ought. He knows that you are better than I 
am. I will go away, and you will make him 


508 


“The 0." 


happy. Oh ! I know you will make him hap- 
pier than I ever could have done, even if he 
had really loved me as — as he only thought he 

did.” 

A moment before, Priscilla had been gazing 
into the hre in a deep reverie. But the pas- 
sionate voice stirred her. She looked down 
into the girl’s imploring eyes, without a shadow 
of resentment. 

“ Get up,” she said, a trifle huskily. “You 
have done no wrong to me. Get up, Theodora, 
and look at me.” 

Unsteadily as she spoke, there was so strange 
a power in her voice that Theo obeyed her. 
Wonderingly, sadly, and humbly she rose to 
her feet, and stood before Priscilla as before 
a judge. 

“Will you believe what I say to you?” she 
asked. 

“Yes,” answered Theo, sorrowfully. 

“Well, then, I say this to you. You have 
not sacrificed me ; you have saved me ! ” 

It was, perhaps, characteristic of her that 
she did not say anything more. The subject 
dropped here, and she did not renew it. 

It was a hard battle which Denis Oglethorpe 


“The or 


509 


fought, during the next fortnight, in that small 
chamber of the way-side inn, at St. Quentin ; 
and it was a stern antagonist he waged war 
against — that grim old enemy, Death ; but 
with the help of the little doctor, and his three 
nurses, he gained the victory at length, and 
conquered, only by a hair’s breadth. The fierce 
fire of the brain wearing itself out left him as 
weak as a child, and for days after he returned 
to consciousness he had scarcely power to move 
a limb or utter a word. 

When first he opened his eyes upon life 
again, no one was in the room but Priscilla 
Gower ; and so it was upon Priscilla Gower 
that his first conscious glance fell. 

He looked at her for a minute, before he 
found strength to speak. But at last his falter- 
ing voice came back to him. 

“ Priscilla,” he whispered, weakly. “ Is it 
you? Poor girl ! ” 

She bent over him with a calm face, but she 
did not attempt to caress him. 

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t try your strength 
too much yet, Denis. It is I.” 

His heavy, wearied eyes searched hers for 
an instant. 


5io 


a 


Theo!' 


“ And no one else?” he whispered, again. 
“ Is no one else here, Priscilla? ” 

“ There is no one else in the room with me,” 
she answered, quietly. “ The rest are up- 
stairs. You must not talk, Denis. Try to be 
quiet.” 

There was hardly any need for the caution, 
for his eyes were closing again, even then, 
through sheer exhaustion. 

Theo was in her room lying down and trying 
to rest. But half an hour later, when Pamela 
came up to her bedside, the dark eyes flew 
wide open in an instant. 

“ What is it, Pam,” she asked. “ Is he worse 
again r 

Pam sat down on the bedside, and looked at 
her with a sort of pity for the almost haggard 
young face drooping against the white pillow. 

“ No,” she said. “ Pie is better. The doctor 
said he would be, and he is. Theo, he has 
spoken to Priscilla Gower, and knows her.” 

Theo sat up in bed, white and still — all white, 
it seemed, but her large, hollow eyes. 

“ Pamela,” she said, “ I must go home.” 

“ Where?” said Pam. 

The white face turned toward her, pitifully. 


“TJieo." 


5ii 

“ I don’t know,” the girl answered, her voice 
fluttering almost as weakly as Denis’s had done. 
“ I don’t know — somewhere, though. To Paris 
again — or to Downport,” with a faint shudder. 
And then all at once she flung up her arms 
wildly, and dropped upon them, face down- 
ward. 

“ Oh, Pam,” she cried out, “ take me back to 
Downport, and let me die. I have no right 
here, and I had better go away. Oh, why did 
I ever come! Why did I ever come?” 

She was sobbing in a hysterical, strained way 
that was fairly terrible. Pamela bent over her, 
and touched her disordered hair with a singu- 
larly light touch. The tears welled up into her 
faded eyes. Just at the moment she could 
think of nothing but the day, so far away now, 
when her own heart had been torn up by the 
roots by one fierce grasp of the hand of relent- 
less fate — the day when Arthur had died. 

“ Hush, Theo,” she said to her; “ don’t cry, 
child.” 

But the feverish, excited sobs only came the 
faster, and more wildly. 

“ Why did I ever come ? ” Theo gasped. “ It 
would have been better to have lived and died 


512 


“ Theo r 


in Downport — far better, I can tell you now, 
Pam, now that it is all over. I loved him, and 
he loved me, too ; he loved me always from 
the first, though we both tried so hard, so hard — 
yes we did, Pamela, to help it. And now it is 
all ended, and I must never see him again. I 
must live and die, grow old — old, and never 
see him again.’' 

There was no comfort for her. Her burst 
of grief and despair wore itself away into a 
strained quiet, and she lay at length in silence, 
Pamela at her side. But she was suffering fear- 
fully in her intense, girlish way. 

She did not say much more to Pamela, but 
she had made up her mind, before many hours 
had passed, to return to Paris. She even got 
up in the middle of the night, in her feverish 
hurry to make her slight preparations for the 
journey. She could go to Paris and wait till 
Lady Throckmorton came back, if she had not 
come back already, and then she could do as 
she was told as to the rest. She would either 
stay there or go to Downport with Pamela. 

Fortune, however, interposed. A carriage 
made its appearance, in the morning, with a 
new arrival — an arrival no less than Lady 


“ Theor 


5i3 


Throckmorton herself, bearing down upon them 
in actual excitement. An untoward accident 
had called her friend from home, and taken 
her to Caen, and there, at her earnest request, 
her ladyship had accompanied her. The blun- 
der of an awkward servant had prevented her 
receiving the letters from St. Quentin, and it 
was only on her return to Paris that she had 
learned the truth. 

Intense as was her bewilderment at her pro - 
tdgee s indiscretion, she felt a touch of admira- 
tion, at the simple, faithful daring of the girl’s 
course. 

“ It is sufficiently out of the way for Priscilla 
Gower to be here, and she is his promised wife ; 
and Pamela is nearly thirty-two years old, and 
looks forty; but you, Theodora — you to run 
away from Paris, with no one but a maid ; to 
run away to nurse a man like Denis Oglethorpe. 
It actually takes away my breath. My dear, 
innocent, little simpleton, what were you think- 
ing about ? ” 

It would be futile to attempt to describe her 
state of mind when she discovered that Denis 
had not learned of Theo’s presence in the 
house. 


12 


5 14 


“Theo." 


But, being quick-sighted, and keen of sense, 
she began to comprehend at last, and it was 
Priscilla Gower who assisted her to a clearer 
state of mind. Two days later, when, after a 
visit to his patient, the little doctor was pre- 
paring to take his departure, Priscilla Gower 
addressed him suddenly, as it seemed, without 
the slightest regard to her ladyship’s presence. 

“ You think your patient improves rapidly,” 
she said. 

“ V ery rapidly,” was the answer. “ Men like 
him always do, mademoiselle.” 

She bent her head in acquiescence. 

“ I have a reason for asking this,” she said. 
“ Do you think he is strong enough to bear a 
shock ? ” 

“ Of what description, mademoiselle? Of 
grief, or — or of joy?” 

“ Of joy, monsieur,” she answered, distinctly. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said the doctor, “ joy rarely 
kills.” 

She bent her erect head again. 

She had not regarded the fact of her old 
enemy’s presence ever so slightly while she 
spoke, but when the doctor was gone she ad- 
dressed her. 


“ Theor 


5i5 


“ I have been thinking of returning to Lon- 
don at once, if possible,” she said. “ Miss 
Gower s ill-health renders any further absence 
a neglect. If I go, would it be possible for you 
to remain here, with Miss North?” 

“ Pamela?” suggested Lady Throckmorton. 

“ Theodora,” was the calm reply. 

A silence of a moment, and then the eyes 
of the two women met each other, in one 
long steady look ; Lady Throckmorton's pro- 
foundly searching, wonderingly questioning ; 
Priscilla Gower’s steadfast, calm, almost defi- 
ant. 

Then Lady Throckmorton spoke. 

“I will stay,” she said, “and she shall stay 
with me.” 

“ Thank you,” with another slight bend of 
the handsome head. “ I am going now to speak 
to Mr. Oglethorpe. When I open the door 
will you send Miss North, Theodora, to me?” 

“ Yes,” answered her ladyship. 

So Priscilla Gower crossed the narrow land- 
ing, and went into the sick-room, and her lady- 
ship summoned Theodora North, and bade her 
wait, not telling her why. What passed be- 
hind the closed doors only three people can 


“Theo” 


5i 6 

tell, and those three people are Denis Ogle- 
thorpe, his wife, and the woman who, in spite 
of her coldness, was truer to him than he dared 
be to himself. There was no sound of raised 
or agitated voices; all was calm and seemingly 
silent. Fifteen minutes passed — half an hour — 
nearly an hour, and then Priscilla Gower stepped 
out upon the landing, and Lady Throckmorton 
spoke to Theo. 

“ Go to her,” was her command. “ She w T ants 
you.” 

The poor child arose mechanically and went 
out. She did not understand why she was 
wanted — she scarcely cared. She merely went 
because she was told. But when she looked up 
at Priscilla Gower, she caught her breath and 
drew back. But Priscilla held out her hand to 
her. 

“ Come,” she commanded. And before Theo 
had time to utter a word, she was drawn into 
the chamber, and the door closed. 

Denis was lying upon a pile of pillows, and, 
pale as he was, she saw in one instant that 
something had happened, and that he was not 
unhappy, whatever his fate was to be. 

“ I have been -telling Mr. Oglethorpe,” Pris- 


“ Theor 


5i7 


cilia said to her, a all that you have done, Theo- 
dora. I have been telling him how you forgot 
the world, and came to him when he was at 
the world’s mercy. I have told him, too, that 
five years ago he made a great mistake which 
I shared with him. It was a great mistake, 
and it had better be wiped out and done away 
with, and we have agreed that it shall be. So 
I have brought you here ” 

All the blood in Theodora North’s heart 
surged into her face, in a great rush of anguish 
and bewilderment. 

“ No ! no ! ” she cried out. “ No ! no ! only 
forgive him, and let me go. Only forgive him, 
and let him begin again. He must love you — 
he does love you. It was my fault — not his. 
Oh ” 

Priscilla stopped her, smiling, in a half-sad 
way. 

“ Hush ! ” she said, quietly. “ You don’t 
understand me. The fault was only the fault 
of the old blunder. Don’t try to throw your 
happiness away, Theodora. You were not 
made to miss it. I have not been blind all 
these months. How could I be? I only 
wanted to wait, and make sure that this was 


5i8 


“ Theor 


not a blunder, too. I have known it from the 
first. I have done now — the old tangle is un- 
raveled. Go to him, Theo, he wants you.” 

The next instant the door closed upon Pris- 
cilla, as she went out, and Theodora North un- 
derstood clearly what she had before never 
dared to dream of. 

There was one brief, breathless pause, and 
then Denis Oglethorpe held out his arms. 

“ My darling,” he said. “Mine, my own.” 

She slipped down by his side, beautiful, trem- 
ulous, with glowing cheeks and tear-wet eyes. 
She remembered Priscilla Gower then. 

“ Oh, my love ! ” she cried. “ She is better 
than I am, braver and more noble ; but she can 
never love you better, or be more faithful and 
true than I will be. Only try me ; only try me, 
my darling.” 

Three months subsequently, when Pamela 
and Priscilla had settled down again to the 
routine of their old lives, there was a quiet 
wedding celebrated at Paris — a quiet wedding, 
though it was under Lady Throckmorton’s pat- 
ronage. In their tender remembrance of Pris- 
cilla Gower, it was made a quiet wedding — so 


“ Theor 


S l 9 

quiet, indeed, that the people who made the 
young English beauty’s romance a topic of 
conversation and nine day’s wonder, scarcely 
knew it had ended. 

And in Broome Street, Priscilla Gower read 
the announcement in the paper, with only the 
ghost of a faint pang. 

“I suppose I am naturally a cold woman,” 
she wrote to Pamela North, with whom she 
sustained a faithful correspondence. “ I will 
acknowledge, at least, to a certain lack of en- 
thusiasm. I can be faithful, but I cannot be 
impassioned. It is impossible for me to suffer 
as your pretty Theo could, as it is equally 
impossible for me to love as she did. I have 
lost something, of course, but I have not lost 
all.” 

Between these two women there arose a 
friendship which was never dissolved. Perhaps 
the one thing they had in common drew them 
toward each other ; at any rate, they were 
faithful ; and even when, three years later, 
Priscilla Gower married a man who loved her, 
and having married him, was a calmly happy 
woman, they were faithful to each other still. 









































































































































DRIEF LIST OF BOOKS OF FICTION 
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S 
SONS, 743-745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 


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2 


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The set , ^ vols., 

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SCRIBNER’S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION 


3 


Richard Harding Davis. 

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The King's Men : 

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6 


SCRIBNER'S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION 


Andrew Lang . 

THE MARK OF CAIN. (l2mo, paper, 25 cts.) 

“ No one can deny that it is crammed as full of incident as it will 
hold, or that the elaborate plot is worked out with most ingenious 
perspicuity.” — The Saturday Review. 

George P . Lathrop. 

NEWPORT. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25)— AN ECHO OF PASSION. 
(!2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1,00) — IN THE DISTANCE. (!2mo, paper, 
50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 

“ It is one of the charms of Mr. Lathrop’s style that it appeals to 
the imagination of the reader by a delicate suggestiveness, which 
lies like a fine atmosphere over the landscape of the story. His 
novels have the refinement of motive which characterize the analytical 
school, but his manner is far more direct and dramatic.” — The 
Christian Union . 

Brander Matthews. 

THE SECRET OF THE SEA, and Other Stories. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; 
cloth, $i.00) — THE LAST MEETING. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00) — 

“Mr. Matthews is a man of wide observation and of much 
familiarity with the world. His literary style is bright and crisp, 
with a peculiar sparkle about it — wit and humor judiciously mingled — 
which renders his pages more than ordinarily interesting.” — The 
Rochester Post-Express. 

Fitgy Ja mes O ' B rien . 

THE DIAMOND LENS, with Other Stories. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, 

$ 1 . 00 .) 

“These stories are the only things in literature to be compared 
with Poe’s works, and if they do not equal it in workmanship, they 
certainly do not yield to it in originality.” — The Philadelphia Record. 

Duffleld Osborne. 

THE SPELL OF ASHTAROTH. (12mo, $1.00.) 

Bliss Perry . 

THE BROUGHTON HOUSE. (l2mo, $1.25), 

In this book Mr. Perry has presented an artistic and extraordinarily 

vivid picture of a New England town in summer, with close, shrewd, 
sympathetic, and wonderfully observant studies of its typical person- 
ages — the quartette of persons at the hotel, “The Broughton 
House,” with whom the story is chiefly occupied, viewed against the 
background of the villagers and the natural environment* 


7 


SCRIBNER’S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION; 


Thomas Nelson Page. 

o 

IN OLE VIRGINIA— Marse Chan and Other Stories. (l2mo, $1 25 )— NEW- 
FOUND RIVER. (l2mo, $1.00.) 

There aie qualities in these stories of Air. Page which we do 
not find in those of any other Southern author, or not to the same 
extent and in the same force — and they are the qualities which are 
too often wanting in modern literature.” — N. Y. Mail and Express. 

Saxe Holm's Stories . 

FIRST SERIES.— Draxy Miller’s Dowry— The Elder’s Wife— Whose Wife 
Was She?— The One-Legged Dancers— How One Woman Kept Her Husband 
— Esther Wynn’s Love Letters. 

SECOND SERIES. — Four-Leaved Clover — Farmer Bassett’s Romance — My 
Tourmalene — Joe Hale’s Red Stocking— Susan Lawton’s Escape. 

Each , i2mo, paper , 50 cts. ; cloth , $/.oo. 

“Saxe Holm’s’ characters are strongly drawn, and she goes right to 
the heart of human experience as one who knows the way. We 
heartily commend them as vigorous, wholesome, and sufficiently 
exciting stories.” — The Advance. 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 

STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKVLL AND MR. HYDE. (l2mo, paper, 25 
cts.; cloth, $1.00)— Kl DNAPPED. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00, 
illustrated, $1.25) — THE MERRY MEN, and Other Tales and Fables. (l2mo, 
paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $1.00) — NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS. (!2mo, paper, 
30 cts.; cloth, $1.00) — THE DYNAMITER. With Mrs. Stevenson (l2mo, 
paper, 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00) — THE BLACK ARROW. Illustrated (l2mo, 
paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00) — THF WRONG BOX. With Lloyd Osbourne 
(!2mo, paper, 50 cts;; cloth, $I.OO)-THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE. 
A Winter’s Tale. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, illustrated, ($1.25.) 

“ Stevenson belongs to the romantic school of fiction writers. He 
is original in style, charming, fascinating, and delicious, with a 
marvelous command of w r ords, and with a manner ever delightful 
and magnetic. His style is as easy and as confidential as that of 
Defoe.” — Boston Transcript. 

T. R. Sullivan. 

DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. (12mo, Cloth, $1.00; Paper, 50 cents). — 
ROSES OF SHADOW. (J2mo, $1.00). 

“ Mr. Sullivan’s style is at once easy and refined, conveying most 
happily that atmosphere of good breeding and polite society which 
is indispensable to the novel of manners, but which so many of them 
lamentably fail of.” — The Nation , “ His style is clear and clean 

cut ; his characters are genuine and observed.” — Saturday Review. 


8 


SCRIBNER’S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 


Frederick J. Stimson (J. S of Dale.) 

GUERNDALE. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25)— THE CRIME OF HENRY 
VANE. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00)— THE SENTIMENTAL CALEN- 
DAR. Head Pieces by F. G. Attwood (l2mo, $2.00) — FIRST HARVESTS. 
An Episode in the Career of Mrs. Levison Gower, a Satire without a Moral 
(!2mo, $1.25) — THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE; or, The Posthumous Jest ol 
the Late John Austin. (l2mo, paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 

“No young novelist in this country seems better equipped than 
Mr. Stimson is. He shows unusual gifts in this and in his other 
stories.” — The Philadelphia Bulletin. 

Frank R. Stockton. 

RUDDER GRANGE. (!2mo, paper, 60 cts. ; cloth. $1.25; illustrated by A. B* 
Frost, Sq. l2mo, $2.00) — THE LATE MRS. NULL. (i2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; 
cloth, $1.25) — THE LADY, OR THE TIGER? and Other Stories. (l2mo* 
paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) — THE CHRISTMAS WRECK, and Other 
Stories. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25) — THE BEE-MAN OF ORN, 
and Other Fanciful Tales. (!2mo, cloth, $1.25) — AMOS KILBRIGHT, with 
Other Stories, (!2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25.) — THE RUDDER 
GRANGERS ABROAD. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25.) 

“ Of Mr. Stockton’s stories what is there to say, but that they 
are an unmixed blessing and delight ? He is surely one of the most 
inventive of talents, discovering not only a new kind in humor and 
fancy, but accumulating an inexhaustible wealth of details in each 
fresh achievement, the least of which would be riches from another 
hand.” — W. D. Howells, in Harper s Magazine. 

Stories by American Authors. 

Cloth, i6mo, goc. each; set, lovols., %g.oo; cabinet ed.,in sets only, 

** The public ought to appreciate the value of this series, which 
is preserving permanently in American literature short stories that 
have contributed to its advancement. American writers lead all 
otheis in this form of fiction, and their best work appears in these 
volumes.” — The Boston Globe. 

John T. Wheelwright. 

A CHILD OF THE CENTURY. (l2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 

“A typical story of political and social life, free from cynicism o* 
mcrbid realism, and brimming over with good-natured fun, which is 
never vulgar.” — The Christian at Work. 



JAN 25 1907 




